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Cbautauqua IReaDin^ Circle Xiterature 



MEN AND MANNERS 



OF THE 



EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



BY 

SUSAN HALE 

'I 




MEADVILLE PENNA 

FLOOD AND VINCENT 

4Lf)t (SCfeautauqua-fCenturp pte0 

NEWYO«K-: CINCINNATI:- " CHICAGO': 

I5P Fifth Avenue. 222 W. Fourth St. 57 Washington St. 



The required books of the C. L. S. C. are recommended by a 
Coimcil of six. It must, however, be understood that rec- 
ommendation does not involve an approval by the Council, 
or by any member of it, of every prhiciple or . ' 'ctri. ' con- 
tained 171 the book recommended. 



H^'^ 

^^> 



107?5 



Copyright, 1898 
By Flood & Vincent 




rwocOPlES RECEIVED. 



The Chautauqua- Century Press, Meadville, Pa., U. S. A. 
Electrotyped, Printed, and Bound by Flood & Vincent 



2 1 



189b. 



PREFACE. 

In our country house here there is an old mahogany- 
bookcase which dates from my father's time, filled with 
books for the most part belonging to my mother, bear- 
ing dates of publication earlier than her birth, and the 
favorite, of her youth. I inherit her taste for these an- 
tiquated volumes, and have myself added to the col- 
lection from time to time, so that at present it makes a 
brave show of shabby gilt backs, worn-out calf bindings, 
and foolish titles, in themselves, in many cases, an ad- 
vertisement of dulness. On these shelves stand "The 
Infidel Father,'' "Father and Daughter," " March- 
mont," "The Exiles," "Julia," in full view, while 
others are relegated to a position behind the rest ; by 
contrast the long row of Mrs. Barbauld's novelists, fifty 
uniform little volumes, charm the eye, my mother's own 
copy of " Sir Charles Grandison," in nineteen volumes, 
book-marks of green ribbon hanging from the volumes — 
for such marks were needed by the diligent readers of 
Richardson's prolixity — all of Miss Burney's novels, 
on the lower shelf an early edition of Miss Edgeworth 
and all of Jane Austen, in one solid volume closely 
printed. The Spectator is there ; so are Pope, Cowper, 
and Goldsmith ; " Rasselas" and " Robinson Crusoe," 
likewise, with ' * Select British Poets ' ' collected by Wil- 
liam Hazlitt, called also ' ' New Elegant Extracts from 
Chaucer to the Present Time," and published in 1824. 

It is from such a mine of excellence that I have drawn 
the material of the present book. The busy world of 



iv Preface. 

to-day thinks it has no time to examine for itself a 
collection like this, to choose the real gold and reject 
the dross, yet my wish is, in the extracts I am giving of 
my favorite authors, to induce readers to search further 
for themselves. 

The ruling passion of mankind has been said to be 
curiosity. The most respectable form of it, it seems to 
me, is curiosity about mankind as it is, an' interest in 
human nature, such as Fielding avowed, and almost 
every one recognizes in himself. In some it takes the 
form of excavation and search for relics of remote an- 
tiquity. When I was in Tunis, and visiting the site of 
ancient Carthage, of which absolutely nothing remains, ' 
and where nothing more was to be seen than a green 
field with goats browsing in it and a glorious view of 
the Mediterranean, it was announced to us that a tomb 
had that moment been opened, conta:ining the skeleton 
of a Carthaginian man. A Punic man, actually lying 
there— with no other signs to tell his story. Instantly 
the curiosity to know that story became intense. The 
passion for digging in ancient ruins is easily understood. 

, After the admirable invention of Cadmus, it becomes 
easier to learn about our progenitors. Hieroglyphics 
help, and although libraries are burnt, like Alexandria, 
and Cordova, parchments are preserved and others 
come to light. With printing the matter grows simpler,' 
for now the events of the world can be recorded and; 
preserved, if people will but take the trouble to write' 
them down. Research has brought to light the man-; 
ners and customs of the early centuries, and now litera- 
ture begins to record them, though at first sparingly. 

. People began to write good prose and beautiful 
poetry in the English, language twelve centuries ago, 
and we may find satisfaction for our curiosity by. 



Preface. v 

studying their works all along these years. But it is 
only with the end of the seventeenth and opening of the 
eighteenth century that the intellectual stir of the times 
begins to assume a personal character ; lives, biogra- 
phies, essays, from that time abound, and letter-writing 
took its valuable place in the literature of England. It 
seems as if everybody had discovered the fun of rushing 
into print. Political pamphlets preceded the news- 
paper editorial to which we are now accustomed. Fine 
ladies wrote ballads which were printed and scattered 
about the streets. Squibs, reviews, satirical poems, 
and letters filled the air. The personal rancors or 
political differences which inspired these flights have 
long ago vanished, but we may search such papers with 
interest to find traces of the manners of the world which 
wrote and read them. This literature naturally cen- 
tered in London, reflecting upon human character and 
huriian life as seen in the great city. It discussed all 
the varieties of social life, and painted London society 
more vividly than has been done before or since. 

It is of London, therefore, that we learn more than 
of the country life of England in our study of this litera- 
ture, but Addison has given us a glimpse of the country 
in his description of Sir Roger, and Fielding and Gold- 
smith allow us a whiff of country air. Yet even with 
these, -the indifference to landscape and the enjoyment 
of nature are remarkable. It has been said that the 
subject of nature and man's relation to it, that is of the 
visible landscape, sea, and sky, were as yet untouched 
up to the age of Pope, and the subject of man alone 
treated. This is so well and thoroughly handled that 
we cannot fail to acquire a pretty good notion of what 
man was like in the century before our own. 

It is this view that has occupied me in making the 



vi Preface. 

selections for the present book. In reading these often 
silly novels I am always looking out for points of differ- 
ence in language, manners, observances, from our own ; 
things which the writers set down all unconsciously as 
matters of course, which now seem to us strange, old- 
fashioned, perhaps absurd, but interesting, in my 
opinion. We especially want to know what our great- 
grandmothers were like, and there is abundant evidence 
to their characteristics, either in their own real letters or 
the fictitious ones written for them, which were ac- 
cepted as good representatives of their thoughts and 
actions by their own approval. 

I do not undertake to deal with the study of the 
literary style of the period, a work which is always 
forward, and in abler hands than my own. Even such 
lives as those of the writers I have quoted are to serve 
only to illustrate the conditions of their time. Their 
biographies have been all charmingly written and their 
works analyzed by our own best writers in other books. 

My real object in preparing the book is to awake, if 
necessary, an interest in my subject, and to stimulate 
my readers to go further in the study of character 
afforded by the literature of the eighteenth century. If 
he once enters the path, the charm of style, the ele- 
gance of execution, the fertility of subject of great 
writers, cannot fail to lead him farther and farther upon 
such a delightful road. 

Susan Hale. 

April 30, i8g8. 



CONTENTS. 

Book Page 

I. Pope and Lady Mary 9 

II. Charlotte Lennox 44 

III. Addison and Gay .......... 75 

IV. Richardson and Harriet Byron . . 109 
V. Fielding 147 

VI. Goldsmith 180 

VII. Horace Walpole and Gray .... 203 

VIII. Evelina and Dr. Johnson 233! 

IX. Beau Nash and Bath ........ 271 

X. Mrs. Radcliffe and her Followers 292 



• 



C. L. S. C. MOTTOES. 

We Study the Word and the Works 

OF God. 
Let us keep our Heavenly Father in 

the midst. 
Never be Discouraged. 
Look Up and Lift Up. 



MEN AND MANNERS OF THE EIGHT- 
EENTH CENTURY. 

BOOK I. 
POPE AND LADY MARY. 

CHAPTER I. 

Lady Mary Wortley Montagu was born in 1690 
and died in 1762. She was Lady Mary Pierrepont, the gi^thand 
daughter of the Duke of Kingston, thus by birth belong- parentage. 
ing to the best society of her time. She married Mr. 
Edward Wortley Montagu, a diplomatist and, amongst 
other things, a personal friend of Addison, and thus was 
brought in contact with the literary people. She was 
herself a brilliant letter-writer, and her letters have been 
published. These things fit her especially for my pur- 
pose, as, during a long life she saw and was a part of 
that society which we desire to become acquainted with, e • ij, -tto 
the circle of wits and fashionable people, of brilliant ^Wf^ 
writers and dull peers, of men of genius who conde- 
scended to frivolity and women of the world who aspired 
to wisdom. Her letters were edited in 1837 t)y her 
great-grandson, Lord Wharncliffe, whose book is already 
old-fashioned, and for this reason has a flavor more 
suited to the present purpose than later less flattering 
though perhaps better considered estimates of Lady 
Mary. There can be no doubt that she was celebrated, 
even from her childhood, for a vivacious intellect, pre- 
cocious mental acquirements, and for the beauty and 
grace of her person. 



lo Men and Manners of the Eighteenth CeJitury. 



Incident of the 
Kit-cat Club. 



Literary- 
progress. 



A trifling incident, which Lady Mary loved to recall, will 
prove how much she was the object of her father's pride and 
fondness in her childhood. As a leader of the fashionable 
world, and a strenuous Whig in party, he of course belonged 
to the Kit-cat Club. One day, at a meeting to choose toasts for 
the year, a whim seized him to nominate her, then not eight 
years old, a candidate, alleging that she was far prettier than 
any lady on their list. The other members demurred, because 
the rules of the club forbade them to elect a beauty whom they 
had never seen. "Then you shall see her,'" cried he ; and in 
the gaiety of the moment sent orders home to have her finely 
dressed and brought to him at the tavern ; where she was 
received with acclamations, her claim unanimously allowed, her , 
health drunk by every one present, and her name engraved in 
due form upon a drinking glass. The company consisting of 
some of the most eminent men in England, she went from the 
lap of one poet, or patriot, or statesman, to the arms of another, 
was feasted with sweetmeats, overwhelmed with caresses, and, 
what perhaps already pleased her better than either, heard her 
wit and beauty loudly extolled on every side. Never again, she 
has said later, did she pass so happy a day. 

However, it is probable that her father, whose amuse- 
ment in her ceased when she grew past the age of sitting 
on his knee and playing with a doll, consigned all his 
daughters alike to the care of a good homespun governess 
such as her letters describe, and, having thus done his 
supposed duty toward them, held himself at liberty to 
pursue his own pleasures, which lay elsewhere than at 
home. Her mother died when Lady Mary was four 
years old. 

But, admitting that Lady Mary's talents were only self-culti- 
vated, her literary progress might not be the less considerable. 
When industry, inspirited by genius, toils from free choice, and 
there exists, unchecked, that large devouring appetite for read- 
ing seldom felt but in the first freshness of intelligent youth, it 
will take in more nourishment, and faster, than the most 
assiduous tuition can cram down. It is true the habit of idly 
turning over an uncounted variety of books, forgotten as soon 



Pope and Lady Mary. n 

as read, may be prejudicial to the mind ; but a bee wanders to 
better purpose than a butterfly, although the one will some- 
times seem just to touch the flower-bed and flit away as lightly 
as the other. Lady Mary read everything, but it was without 
forgetting anything ; and the mass of matter, whencesoever 
collected, gradually found its own arrangement in her head. 
She probably had some assistance from Mr. William Fielding, 
her mother's brother, a man of parts, who perceived her 
capacity, corresponded with her, and encouraged her pursuit 
of information. And she herself acknowledges her obligations 
to Bishop Burnet for "condescending to direct the studies of a 
girl." 

Nevertheless, though laboring to acquire what maybe termed 
masculine knowledge [this was written in 1836] and translating 
under the bishop's eye the Latin version of Epictetus, she was 
by no means disposed to neglect works of fancy and fiction, but 
got by heart all the poetry that came in her way, and indulged 
herself in the luxury of reading every romance as yet invented. 
For she possessed, and left after her, the whole library cele- old romances, 
brated in Mrs. Lennox's "Female Quixote," viz.: "Cleopatra," 
"Cassandra," "Clelia," "Cyrus," "Pharamond," "Ibrahim," 
etc., etc., all, like the Lady Arabella's collection, "Englished 
mostly by persons of honor."' The chief favorite appears to 
have been a translation of Monsieur Honor^ d'Urf^'s "Astrea," 
once the delight of Henri Quatre [died 1715] and his court, and 
still admired and quoted by the savants who flourished under 
Louis XIV. In a blank page of this massive volume (which 
might have counterbalanced a pig of lead of the same size) 
Lady Mary had written, in her fairest youthful hand, the names 
and characteristics of the chief personages, thus : the beautiful 
Diana, the volatile Climene, the melancholy Doris, Celadon 
the faithful, Adamas the wise, and so on, forming two long 
columns. 

These ponderous books, once hers, black in outward hue, 
and marked by the wear and tear of almost a century, might 
have been disrespectfully treated by her junior grandchildren 
and their nursery maids — put to any use except reading them — 
but for the protection of an excellent person, who when young 
had been Lady Bute's own attendant before her marriage [the 
only daughter of Lady Mary became Lady Bute] , and ever after 
made part of her family. Her spectacles were always to be 



12 Men and Marnier s of the Eighteenth Century. 



found in "Clelia" or "Cassandra," which she studied unceas- 
" Clelia" and ingly, prizing them next to the Bible and Tillotson's sermons ; 
"Cassandra." because, to give her own words, "they were all about good and 
virtuous people, not like the wicked trash she now saw young 
folks get from circulating libraries." To her latest hour she 
used to repent having lost sight of another romance, beautiful 
beyond them all— the "History of Hiempsal, King of Nu- 
midia." This, she said, she had read only once, and by no 
pains or search could ever meet with or hear of again. 

The modern world will smile, but should, however, beware 
of too hastily despising, works that charmed Lady Mary Wort- 
ley in her youth, and were courageously defended by Madame 
de S^vign^, even when hers was past, and they began to be slid- 
ing out of fashion. She, it seems, thought, with the old woman 
just now mentioned, that they had a tendency to elevate the 
mind, and to instill honorable and generous sentiments. At 
any rate they must have fostered application and perseverance 
by accustoming their readers to what the French term ouvrages 
de tongue haleine. 

These ancient heavy tomes are almost inaccessible 
now, and only to be found in the darkest places of a few 
long-suffering libraries. When found they are soon 
relegated to their shelves, for modern application and 
perseverance are quite incapable of wading through their 
long, involuted sentences. 

Some particulars, in themselves too insignificant to be worth 
^We^"^ ^'^'^^ recording, are valuable as recording the manners of our ances- 
tors. Lady Mary's father, who became Lord Dorchester, by 
the time she had strength for the office, imposed upon his 
eldest daughter the task of doing the honors of his table at 
Thoresby, which in those days required no small share. For 
' the mistress of a country mansion was not only to invite— that 
is urge and tease — her company to eat more than human 
throats could conveniently swallow, but to carve every dish, 
when chosen, with her own hands. The greater the lady, the 
more indispensable the duty. Each joint was carried up in its 
turn to be operated on by her, and her alone, since the peers 
and knights on either hand were so far from being bound to 
offer their assistance that the very master of the house, posted 



Pope and Lady Mary. 13 

opposite to her, might not act as her croupier ; his department 
was to push the bottle after dinner. As for the crowd of guests, 
the most inconsiderable among these, the curate, or subaltern, 
or squire's younger brother, if suffered through her neglect 
to help himself to a slice of the mutton placed before him, 
would have chewed it in bitterness, and gone home an 
affronted man, half inclined to give a wrong vote at the next 
election. There were then professed carving-masters, who 
taught young ladies the art scientifically ; from one of whom 
Lady Mary took lessons three times a week, that she might 
be perfect on her father's public days ; when, in order to 
perform her functions without interruption, she was forced to 
eat her own dinner alone an hour or two beforehand. 

The young friends of Lady Mary were such as the gj^^jy fiends, 
beautiful Dolly Walpole, sister of Sir Robert, Lady 
Anne Vaughan, the last of a family noted for giving 
Jeremy Taylor an asylum at Golden Grove ; amongst 
them was Mistress Anne Wortley. 

Mrs. Anne has a most mature sound to our modern ears, but 
in the phraseology of those days. Miss, which had hardly yet 
ceased to be a term of reproach, still denoted childishness, 
flippancy, or some other contemptible quality, and was rarely 
applied to young ladies of a respectable class. Nay, Lady Bute 
herself could remember having been styled Mistress Wortley, 
when a child, by two or three elderly visitors, as tenacious of 
their ancient modes of speech as of other old fashions. 

Mistress Anne was the favorite sister of Edward Wort- 
ley, whom Lady Mary married. Their father was Mr. 
Sidney Montagu. This old gentleman and the scene 
surrounding him were distinctly recollected by his 
granddaughter, Lady Mary's daughter, who married 
the Earl of Bute. 

She described him as a large, rough-looking man, with a huge 
flapped hat, seated magisterially in his elbow-chair, talking sidney'^'°"° 
very loud, and swearing boisterously at his servants ; while Montagu, 
beside him sate a venerable figure, meek and benign in aspect, 
with silver locks, overshadowed by a black velvet cap. This 



14 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 

was his brother, the pious Dean Montagu, who every now and 
then fetched a deep sigh and cast his eyes upward, as if 
silently beseeching heaven to pardon the profane language 
which he condemned but durst not reprove. Unlike as they 
were in their habits and their morals, the two brothers com- 
iponly lived together. 

Mr. Edward Wortley Montagu has been frequently 
described as a grave, saturnine diplomatist, with whose 
character the sprightly and airy woman of fashion and 
literature could have had nothing in common ; and as 
Lady Mary passed the latter half of their married life 
away from him, there is room for this impression. Still 
their great-grandson, Lord Wharncliffe, rather resents 
this : 

It is hard to divine why, or on what authority, Mr. Edward 
Character of Wortley has been represented by late writers as a dull, phleg- 
Edward matic country gentleman — "of a tame genius and moderate 

capacity," or "of parts more solid than brilliant" — which in 
common parlance is a civil way of saying the same thing. He 
had, on the contrary, one of those strong characters that are 
little influenced by the world's opinion, and for that reason 
little understood by the unthinking part of it. All who really 
knew him while living held him a man distinguished for sound- 
ness of judgment and clearness of understanding, qualities 
nowise akin to dulness ; they allowed him also to be a first-rate 
scholar ; and as he had traveled more than most young men of 
his time, it is probable that he surpassed them in the knowl- 
edge of modem languages. Polite literature was his passion ; 
and though to have a taste for wit and talents may not certainly 
imply a gift for these, yet it would be strange if the alder- 
man-like mortal depicted above had sought out such compan- 
ions as Steele, Garth, Congreve, etc., or chosen Addison for 
his bosom friend. The only picture of Mr. Wortley in existence 
belonged to Addison. The face seems very young, and, in 
spite of wig, cravat, and other deforming appendages, very 
handsome. 

Among the various offers of marriage which I expect 
in the course of this book to present as signs of the man- 



Pope and Lady Mary. 15 

ners of our period, Mr. Wortley's will come in as an 
average specimen taken from real life. 

His society was principally male, the wits and politicians of 
that day forming a class quite distinct from the " white-gloved 
beau" attendant upon ladies. Indeed, as the education of 
women had then reached its very lowest ebb, and if not 
coquettes, or gossips, or diligent card-players, their best praise 
was to be notable housewives, Mr. Wortley had no particular 
motive to seek acquaintance with such females. His surprise 
and delight were the greater when one afternoon, having by 
chance loitered in his sister's apartment till visitors arrived, he 
saw Lady Mary Pierrepont for the first time, and on entering 
into conversation with her found, in addition to beauty that 
charmed him, not only brilliant wit, but a thinking and culti- 
vated mind. He was especially struck with the discovery that q^-^^ ^^ 
she knew Latin, and could relish his beloved classics. Some- marriage, 
thing that passed led to the mention of Quintus Curtius, which 
she said she had never read. This was a fair handle for a 
piece of gallantry ; in a few days she received a superb edition 
of the author, with these lines facing the title-page : 

Beauty like this had vanquished Persia shown, 
The Macedon had laid his empire down, 
And polished Greece obeyed a barb'rous throne. 
Had wit so bright adorned a Grecian dame, 
The am'rous youth had lost his thirst for fame, 
Nor distant India sought through Syria's plain ; 
But to the Muses' stream with her had run, 
And thought her loved more than Ammon's son. 

How soon this declaration of love in verse was followed by 
one in prose does not appear. 



CHAPTER II. 



Lady Mary's 
letters. 



Letter to Mrs. 
Wortley. 



The delightful letters of Lady Mary have given her a 
place in English literature like that .of Madame de 
S^vign6 in French, although nothing could be more 
different in style and spirit. She had the true gift of 
letter-writing, now so rapidly dying out that it will soon 
be termed obsolete. Wherever she went or was she 
wrote long, but not too long, letters to her friends and 
relatives. Her intimacy with the best society of her 
time, either intellectual or fashionable, gives the value of 
an eye witness to them. They become a key or clue to 
the manners and habits of the leading people of her 
generation. I select extracts from such letters as bear 
upon the manners of the time that difier from our own, 
without dwelling upon the morals, a task of a different 
and more difficult scope. The very form of the letters is 
in itself an indication of the greater stiffness of our 
grandmothers, as well as of the leisure which permitted 
them to indulge it. The following is written before her 
marriage, to the dear friend before referred to — Mistress 

Wortley : 

August 8, lyog. 
I shall run mad : — with what heart can people write when 
' they believe their letters will never be received ? I have already 
writ you a very long scrawl, but it seems it never came to your 
hands ; I cannot bear to be accused of coldness by one whom I 
shall love all my life. This will perhaps miscarry as the last 
did ; how unfortunate I am if it does ! You will think I forget 
you who are never out of my thoughts. You will fancy me 
stupid enough to neglect your letters when they are the only 
pleasures of my solitude ; in short, you will call me ungrateful 

i6 



Pope and Lady Mary. 



17 



and insensible when I esteem you as I ought in esteeming you 
above all the world. If I am not quite so unhappy as I imagine, 
and you do receive this, let me know it as soon as you can ; for 
till then I shall be in terrible uneasiness ; and let me beg you 
for the future if you do not receive letters very constantly from 
me, imagine the post-boy killed, imagine the mail burnt, or 
some other strange accident ; you can imagine nothing so 
impossible as that I forget you, my dear Mrs. Wortley. I know 
no pretense I have to your good opinion but my hearty desir- 
ing it ; I wish I had that imagination you talk of to render me a 
fitter correspondent for you, who can write so well on every- 
thing. I am now so much alone I have leisure to pass whole 
days in reading, but am not at all proper for so delicate an 
employment as choosing your books. Your own fancy will 
better direct you. My study at present is nothing but diction- 
aries and grammars. I am trying whether it be possible to f?"*?y°f. 

4 ., . 111111 dictionaries 

learn without a master ; I am not certam, and dare hardly hope and grammars. 
I shall make any great progress ; but I find the study so divert- 
ing, I am not only easy, but pleased with the solitude that 
indulges it. I forget there is such a place as London, and wish 
for no company but yours. You see, my dear, in making my 
pleasures consist of these unfashionable diversions, I am not of 
the number who cannot be easy out of the mode. I believe 
more follies are committed out of complaisance to the world 
than in following our own inclinations ; nature is seldom in the 
wrong, custom always ; it is with some regret I follow it in all 
the impertinencies of dress ; the compliance is so trivial it com- 
forts me ; but I am amazed to see it consulted even in the most 
important occasions of our lives ; and that people of good sense 
in other things can make their happiness consist in the opinions 
of others, and sacrifice everything to the desire of appearing in 
fashion. I call all people who fall in love with furniture, 
clothes, and equipage, of this number, and I look upon them as 
no less in the wrong than when they were five years old, and 
doated on shells, pebbles, and hobby-horses. I believe you 
will expect this letter to be dated from the other world, for sure 
I am you never heard an inhabitant of this talk so before. I 
suppose you expect, too, I should conclude with begging par- 
don for this extreme tedious, and very nonsensical letter ; 
quite contrary, I think you will be obliged to me for it. I could 
not better show my great concern for your reproaching me with 



Practical 
opinions. 



i8 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 



Marriage of 
Lady Mary ; 
an elopement. 



The arrange- 
ments. 



neglect I knew myself innocent of, than proving myself mad in 
these pages. My sister says a great deal about Mrs. K. ; but 
besides my having forgot it, the paper is at an end. 

Tedious indeed, and the writer but nineteen ! 

Although the alHance with Mr. Wortley Montagn was 
a good one, and was received cordially by the father of 
the bride at first, difficulties arose about settlements, 
with the result that the young pair ran away to be 
married. The following on the eve of the event ; being 
more genuine we may suppose than that just given, it is 

more brief : 

Friday night. 
I tremble for what we are doing. Are you sure you shall love 
me forever? Shall we never repent? I fear and I hope. I 
foresee all that will happen on this occasion. I shall incense 
my family in the highest degree. The generality of the world 
will blame my conduct, and relations and friends will invent a 
thousand stories of me. Yet, 'tis possible, you may recom- 
pense everything to me. In this letter, which I am fond of, you 
promise me all that I wish. Since I writ so far I received your 
Friday letter. I will be only yours and I will do what you 
please. 

And the next day : 

Saturday morning. 
. . . Reflect now for the last time in what manner you 
must take me. I told a lady of my friends what I intend to do. 
You will think her a very good friend when I tell you she 
proffered to lend us her house. I did not accept of this till I 
had let you know it. If you think it more convenient to carry 
me to your lodgings, make no scruple of it. . . . I again 
beg you to have a coach to be at the door early Monday morn- 
.ing, to carry us some part of our way, wherever you resolve our 
journey shall be. If you determine to go to the lady's house 
you had best come with a coach and six at seven o'clock to- 
morrow. She and I will be in the balcony which looks on the 
road ; you have nothing to do but to stop under it, and we will 
come down to you. Do in this what you like ; but after all 
think very seriously. Your letter, which will be waited for, is 
to determine everything. 



Pope and Lady Mary. 



19 



In 17 16 Lady Mary accompanied her husband on his 
embassy to the court of Constantinople, and she has, in Beginning of 

•^ _ -^ ' her travels 

her letters, described her travels over Europe and the "^^er Europe. 
East. They left England in a yacht, and having set out 
in a calm were two days before reaching Rotterdam. 
She says ; 

August 3, iyi6. 
The wind blew so hard that none of the sailors could keep 
their feet, and we were all Sunday night tossed very hand- 
somely. I never saw a man more frighted than the captain. 
For my part, I have been so lucky, neither to suffer from fear 
nor sea-sickness ; though I confess I was so inipatient to see 
myself once more upon dry land that I would not stay till the 
yacht could get to Rotterdam, but went in the long boat to 
Helvoetsluys, where we had voitures to carry us to the Brill. 

Cologn, August 16 {O. S.), iji6. 
If my Lady Rich could have any notion of the fatigues that 
1 have suffered these last two days, I am sure she would own it 
a great proof of regard that I now sit down to write to her. We 
hired horses from Nimeguen hither, not having the conveniency 
of the post, and found but very indifferent accommodations at 
Reinberg, our first stop ; but that was nothing to what I suffered 
yesterday. We were in hopes to reach Cologn ; our horses 
tired at Stamel, three hours from it, where I was forced to pass 
the night in my clothes, in a room not at all better than a 
hovel ; for though I have my own bed with me I had no mind 
to undress where the wind came from a thousand places. 

Arrived at Vienna, six weeks from Rotterdam, she 
sends her sister a long letter, describing her first going vienna?*^ * 
to court. I print a short part of it as showing London 
fashions by contrast. 

In order to that ceremony, I was squeezed up into a gown 
and adorned with a gorget and the other implements thereunto 
belonging; a dress very inconvenient, but which certainly 
shows the neck and shape to great advantage. I cannot for- 
bear giving you some description of the fashions here, which 
are more monstrous and contrary to all common sense and 



20 Men and Manner's of the Eighteenth Centzay. 



Description of 

Viennese 

fashions. 



Account of 
Prague. 



reason than 'tis possible for you to imagine. They build cer- 
tain fabrics of gauze on their heads, about a yard high, consist- 
ing of three or four stories, fortified with numberless yards of 
heavy ribbon. The foundation of this structure is a thing they 
call a Bourle, which is exactly of the same shape and kind, but 
about four times as big, as those rolls our prudent milkmaids 
make use of to fix their pails upon. This machine they cover 
with their own hair, which they mix with a great deal of false, 
it being a particular beauty to have their heads too large to go 
into a moderate tub. Their hair is prodigio'usly powdered, to 
conceal the mixture, and set out with three or four rows of 
bodkins, wonderfully large, that stick out two or three inches 
from their hair, made of diamonds, pearls, red, green, and 
yellow stones, that it certainly requires as much art and expe- 
rience to carry the load upright as to dance upon May Day with 
the garland. Their whalebone petticoats outdo ours by several 
yards' circumference, and cover some acres of ground. You 
may easily suppose how this extraordinary dress sets off and 
improves the natural ugliness with which God Almighty has 
been pleased to endow them generally speaking. 

Prague, November ij, iji6. 
. . . This town was once the royal seat of the Bohemian 
kings, and is still the capital of the kingdom. There are yet 
some remains of its former splendor, being one of the largest 
towns in Germany, but, for the most part, old built and thinly 
inhabited, which makes the houses very cheap. Those people 
of quality who cannot easily bear the expense of Vienna 
choose to reside here, where they have assemblies, music, and 
all other diversions (those of a court excepted) at very moder- 
ate rates, all things being here in great abundance, especially 
the best wild-fowl I ever tasted. I have already been visited 
by some of the most considerable ladies, whose relations I 
.knew at Vienna. They are dressed after the fashions there, 
after the manner that the people at Exeter imitate those of 
London ; that is, their imitation is more excessive than the 
original. 'Tis not easy to describe what extraordinary figures 
they make. The person is so much lost between head-dress 
and petticoat that they have as much occasion to write upon 
their backs, "This is a woman," for the information of trav- 
elers, as ever sign-post painter had to write, "This is a bear." 



Pope and Lady Mary. 21 

In the next letter the absence of any feeUng for 

scenery is to be noticed. 

Leipzig, Nov. 21, iji6. 
I believe, dear sister, you will easily forgive my not writing 
to you from Dresden, as I promised, when I tell you that I Dangerous 
never went out of my chaise from Prague to this place. You journey to 
may imagine how heartily I was tried with twenty-four hours' 
post-traveling without sleep or refreshment (for I can never 
sleep in a coach, however fatigued). We passed by moon- 
shine the frightful precipices that divide Bohemia from Saxony, 
at the bottom of which runs the river Elbe ; but I cannot say 
that I had reason to fear drowning in it, being perfectly con- 
vinced that, in case of a tumble, it was utterly impossible to 
come alive to the bottom. In many places the road is so 
narrow that I could not discern an inch of space between the 
\yheels and the precipice. Yet I was so good a wife as not to 
wake Mr. Wortley, who was fast asleep by my side, to make 
him share in my fears, since the danger was unavoidable, till I 
perceived by the bright light of the moon our postillions 
nodding on horseback, while the horses were on a full gallop. 
Then indeed I thought it very convenient to call out to desire 
them to look where they were going. My calling waked Mr. 
Wortley and he was much more surprised than myself at the 
situation we were in, and assured me that he passed the Alps 
five times in different places without ever having gone a road 
so dangerous. I have been told since that it is common to 
find the bodies of travelers in the Elbe ; but, thank God, that 
was not our destiny ; and we came safe to Dresden, so much 
tired with fear and fatigue it was not possible for me to com- 
pose myself to write. After passing those dreadful rocks, Dresden. 
Dresden appeared to me a wonderfully agreeable situation, in 
a fine large plain on the banks of the Elbe. I was very glad to 
stay there a day to rest myself. The town is the neatest I 
have seen in Germany ; most of the houses are new built ; the 
elector's palace is very handsome, and his repository full of 
curiosities of different kinds, with a collection of medals very 
much esteemed. 

Frightful precipices, dreadful rocks ; they looked in 
the Elbe for bodies of travelers, but apparently saw no 
beauty there. 



22 Men and Manfiers of the Eighteenth Century. 



The court at 
Hanover. 



George I. of 
Brunswick. 



Hanover, Nov. 25, 1716. 
To THE Countess of Bristol : I received your ladyship's- 
letter but the day before I left Vienna (November 15th), 
though by the date I ought to have had it much sooner ; but 
nothing was ever worse regulated than the post in most parts 
of- Germany. I would not longer delay my thanks for yours, 
though the number of my acquaintances here and my duty of 
attending at court leave me hardly any time to dispose of. I 
am extremely pleased that I can tell you without flattery or 
partiality that our young prince [afterward George II.] has all 
the accomplishments that it is possible to have at his age, with 
an air of sprightliness and understanding, and something so 
very engaging and easy in his behavior that he needs not the 
advantage of his rank to appear charming. I had the honor of 
a long conversation with him last night before the king came 
in. His governor retired on purpose, as he told me afterward, 
that I might make some judgment of his genius by hearing 
him speak without constraint ; and I was surprised at the 
quickness and politeness that appeared in everything he said ; 
joined to a person perfectly agreeable and the fine fair hair of 
the princess. This town is neither large nor handsome ; but 
the palace is capable of holding a much greater court than that 
of St. James's. The king has had the goodness to appoint us 
a lodging in one part of it, without which we should have 
been very ill accommodated ; for the vast number of English 
crowds the town so much it is very good luck to get one sorry 
room in a miserable tavern. I dined to-day with the Portu- 
guese ambassador, who thinks himself very happy to have 
two wretched parlors in an inn. 

This king was George I. of Brunswick, who had suc- 
ceeded to the throne of Queen Anne in 17 14. Much of 
his time was passed out of England at Hanover, where 
'the court was kept up with as much state as that of St. 
James. The young prince was to succeed his father, as 
George II., some thirty years later. 

She goes on, in the same letter : 

I have now made the tour of Germany, and cannot help 
observing a considerable difference between traveling here and 
in England. One sees none of those fine seats of noblemen so 



Pope and Lady Mary. 23 

common amongst us, nor anything like a country gentleman's 
house, though they have many situations perfectly fine. But 
the whole people are divided into absolute sovereignties, where 
all the riches and magnificence are at court, or into communi- 
ties of merchants, such as Nuremburg and Frankfort, where 
they live always in town for the convenience of trade. The 
king's company of French comedians play here every night. 
They are very well dressed, and some of them not ill-actors. 
His majesty dines and sups constantly in public. The court 
is very numerous, and his affability and goodness make it one 
of the most agreeable places in the world. 

. . . I was sorry that the ill weather did not permit me to 
see Herrenhausen in all its beauty ; but, in spite of the snow, I 
thought the gardens very fine. I was particularly surprised at Gardens of 
the vast number of orange-trees, much larger than any I have Herrenhausen. 
ever seen in England, though this climate is certainly colder. 
But I had more reason to wonder that nigbt, at the king's table, 
to see a present from a gentleman of this country, of two large 
baskets of ripe oranges and lemons of different sorts, many of 
which were quite nev.^ to me ; and what I thought worth all the 
rest, two ripe ananas, which, to my taste, are a fruit perfectly 
delicious. You know they are naturally the growth of Brazil, Ripe ananas, 
and I could not imagine how they came here but by enchant- 
ment. Upon inquiry, I learnt that they have brought their 
stoves to such perfection, they lengthen their summers as long 
as they please, giving to every plant the degree of heat it would 
receive from the sun in its native soil. The effect is very nearly 
the same. I am surprised we do not practice in England so 
useful an invention. This reflection leads me to consider our 
■obstinacy in shaking with the cold five months in the year, 
rather than make use of stoves, which are certainly one of the 
greatest conveniences of life. Besides they are so far from 
spoiling the form of a room, that they add very much to the 
magnificence of it, when they are painted and gilt, as they are 
at Vienna, or at Dresden, where they are often in the shapes of 
china jars, statues, or fine cabinets, so naturally represented 
that they are not to be distinguished. If I ever return, in 
defiance to the fashion you shall certainly see one in the 
•chamber of, dear sister, your, etc. 

Lady Mary arrived in Adrianople, April i (O. S.), 



24 Men and Maimers of the Eighteeiith Century. 



Treatment for 
small-pox. 



Content with 
home. 



17 17, "having finished a journey," as she says in a 
letter to her R. H. the Princess of Wales (afterward 
Queen Caroline), "that has not been undertaken by 
any Christian since the time of the Greek emperors. ' ' 

I pass over the letters from the East, because in spite 
of their amusing accounts of her observations of eastern 
scenes and manners, they contain little reference to the 
subject we have now in hand. For the- same reason I 
omit the account of her course in regard to inoculation 
for small-pox, which interested her greatly during her 
stay in the East. The success of this treatment is 
mainly to be attributed to her intelligence and perse- 
verance in spite of much opposition against so great an 
innovation. 

Returning to England, they arrived at Dover in 
October (O. S.), 1718, after an absence of a little over 
two years. She says : 

I cannot help looking with partial eyes on my native land. 
That partiality was given us by nature, to prevent rambling, 
the effect of an ambitious thirst after knowledge which we are 
not formed to enjoy. All we get by it is a fruitless desire of 
mixing the different pleasures and conveniences which are 
given to the different parts of the world, and cannot meet in 
any one of them. After having read all that is to be found in 
the languages I am mistress of, and having decayed my sight 
by midnight studies, I envy the easy peace of mind of a ruddy 
milkmaid, who, undisturbed by doubt, hears the sermon with 
humility every Sunday, not having confounded the sentiments 
of natural duty in her head by the vain inquiries of the schools, 
who may be more learned, yet, after all, must remain as 
ignorant. And, after having seen part of Asia and Africa, and 
almost made the tour of Europe, I think the honest English 
squire more happy, who verily believes the Greek wines less 
delicious than March beer ; that the African fruits have not so 
fine a flavor as golden pippins ; that the Becafiguas of Italy 
are not so well tasted as a rump of beef; and that, in short, 
there is no perfect enjoyment of this life out of Old England. 



Pope and Lady Mary. 25 

I pray God I may think so for the rest of my Hfe ; and since I 
must be contented with our scanty allowance of daylight, that 
I may forget the enlivening sun of Constantinople. 

Yet she passed the latter half of heir life abroad ! 

Before she left England Lady Mary had made the 
acquaintance of Pope ; during her absence they corre- 
sponded, and on her return the intimacy was con- 
tinued. It was no doubt owing to Pope's suggestions 
that she took a house at Twickenham, where she often House at 
withdrew from the excitements of London society, for ^"^ ^" ^'"' 
which, however, at this period she had no doubt a keen 
enjoyment. Her house in town was in Cavendish 
Square. 



CHAPTER III. 



Alexander 
Pope. 



Early life. 



" Rape of the 
Lock." 



The name of Alexander Pope stands first in the 
brilliant period of Queen Anne's time. He early 
showed great precocity of intellect, although of almost 
dwarfish stature, deformed, and during his life under- 
going much physical suffering. His father's fortune 
was sufficient to allow him to indulge his taste for 
study. At sixteen he began his literary career, and 
from that early period his activity was unremitting, 
and a succession of his works, varied in subject, and 
especially remarkable for polish of style, placed him at 
the head of the poets of his age. In addition to 
giving to the world his own compositions, Pope trans- 
lated into English verse the Iliad and Odyssey of 
Homer, a work published by subscription, and a most 
successful pecuniary venture, by which he laid the foun- 
dation of a competence which he enjoyed with good 
sense and moderation. 

During the early part of his life he lived with his 
parents at Chiswick, but on the death of his father he 
removed to a villa he had bought at Twickenham, 
where he passed the remainder of his life, in easy cir- 
cumstances and in familiar intercourse with most of the 
leading statesmen, orators, and men of letters of the 
day. 

It was in 17 12 that Pope produced the " Rape of the 
Lock," not only his most charming production, but, 
in general esteem, the most charming production of the 
century in which he lived. 

The subject came to him from a "society event," as 



Pope and Lady Mary. 27 

it would be now called in our newspapers. Lord Petre 
had offended Miss Fermor by stealing a lock of her pog^^' °*^ ^'^^ 
hair. She thought he showed more gallantry than 
courtesy, and some unpleasant feeling resulted between 
the families. A friend suggested to Pope that a light, 
brilliant trifle from his hand turning the matter into 
kindly ridicule might allay irritation. Pope accord- 
ingly produced his dainty little mock heroic, in which 
he describes the fatal scene at Hampton, in which 
the too daring peer appropriated the lock. The poem 
received the praise which it well deserved ; no more 
brilliant, sparkling, vicacious trifle is to be found in our 
literature. Pope obtained permission to publish it 
(1712), and a wider circle admired it; in 1714 it 
appeared again in a new form, with sylphs and gnomes, 
and an ingenious account of a game at cards. The 
quotations here given are selected to show some prac- 
tices of the toilet, etc. , common to the period. 

The Toilet. 

And now, unveil'd, the toilet stands display'd, 

Each silver vase in mystic order laid. 

First, robed in white, the nymph intent adores, 

With head uncovered, the cosmetic powers. the^toiTer'^ °^ 

A heavenly image in the glass appears, 

To that she bends, to that her eyes she rears ; 

Th' inferior priestess, at her altar's side. 

Trembling, begins the sacred rites of pride. 

Unnumbered treasures ope at once, and here 

The various oflf' rings of the world appear ; 

From each she nicely culls with curious toil, 

And decks the goddess with the glittering spoil. 

This casket India's glowing gems unlocks, 

And all Arabia breathes from yonder box. 

The tortoise here and elephant unite. 

Transformed to combs, the speckled and the white. 

Here files of pins extend their shining rows. 



28 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century, 

- 

Puffs, powders, patches, Bibles, billet-doux. 
Now awful beauty puts on all its arms ; 
The fair each moment rises in her charms. 
Repairs her smiles, awakens every grace. 
And calls forth all the wonders of her face : 
' Sees by degrees a purer blush arise. 

And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes. 
The busy sylphs surround their darling care ; 
These set the head, and those divide the hair ; 
Some fold the sleeve, whilst others plait the gown ; 
And Betty's prais'd for labors not her own. 



Description of 
the court 
cards. 



Method of 
warfare. 



The Game of Cards. 

Belinda now, whom thirst of fame invites, 
Burns to encounter two adventurous knights. 
At ombre singly to decide their doom ; 
And swells her breast with conquests yet to come. 
Straight the three bands prepare in arms to join, 
Each band the number of the sacred Nine. 
Soon as she spreads her hand, th' aerial guard 
Descend, and sit on each important card : 
First Ariel perched upon a Matadore, 
Then each according to the rank they bore : 
For sylphs, yet mindful of their ancient race, 
Are, as when women, wondrous fond of place. 

Behold, four Kings in majesty revered. 
With hoary whiskers and a forky beard ; 
And four fair Queens, whose hands sustain a flower, 
Th' expressive emblem of their softer power ; 
Four Knaves in garbs succinct, a trusty band, 
Caps on their heads, and halberds in their hands ; 
And parti-colored troops, a shining train, 
Drawn forth to combat on the velvet plain. 

The skilful nymph reviews her force with care ; 
" Let Spades be trumps ! " she said, and trumps they were. 

Now move to war her sable Matadores, 
In show like leaders of the swarthy Moors. 
Spadillo first, unconquerable lord, 
Led off two captive trumps, and swept the board. 



Pope and Lady Mary. 



29 



As many more Manillio forc'd to yield, 

And march'd a victor from the verdant field. 

Him Baste followed, but his fate more hard, 

Gain'd but one trump and one plebeian card. 

With his broad sabre next, a chief in years. 

The hoary majesty of Spades appears, 

Puts forth one manly leg, to sight reveal' d, 

The rest, his many-colored robe conceal' d. 

The rebel Knave, who dares his prince engage, 

Proves the just victim of his royal rage. 

Ev'n mighty Pam, that Kings and Queens o'erthrew, 

And mow'd down armies in the fights of loo. 

Sad chance of war ! now destitute of aid. 

Falls undistinguish'd by the victor Spade ! 

Thus far both armies to Behnda yield ; 
Now to the baron fate inclines the field, 
His warlike Amazon her host invades, 
Th' imperial consort of the crown of Spades. 
The Club's black tyrant first her victim died. 
Spite of his haughty mien and barb'rous pride ; 
What boots the regal circle on his head. 
His giant limbs in state unwieldy spread ; 
That long behind he trails his pompous robe, 
And, of all monarchs, only grasps the globe ? 

The baron now his Diamonds pours apace ; 
Th' embroidered King who shows but half a face, 
And his refulgent Queen with pow'rs combin'd. 
Of broken troops an easy conquest find. 
Clubs, Diamonds, Hearts, in wild disorder seen. 
With throngs promiscuous strow the level green. 
Thus when dispers'd a routed army runs 
Of Asia's troops, and Afric's sable sons, 
With like confusion different nations fly, 
Of various habit, and of various dye. 
The pierc'd battalions disunited fall, 
In heaps on heaps ; one fate o'erwhelms them all. 

The Knave of Diamonds tries his wily arts. 
And wins (oh, shameful chance !) the Queen of Hearts. 
At this, the blood the virgin's face forsook, 
A livid paleness spreads o'er all. her look ; 
She sees, and trembles at th' approaching ill, 



The success of 
Belinda, 



Triumph of the 
baron. 



30 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Centtiry. 

Just in the jaws of ruin and codille. 

And now (as oft in some distemper'd state) 

On one nice trick depends the gen'ral fate : 

Ani Ace of Hearts steps forth : the King unseen 

Lurk'd in her hand, and mourn'd his captive Queen ; 

He springs to vengeance with an eager pace, 

And falls like thunder on the prostrate Ace. 

The nymph exulting fills with shouts the sky ; 

The walls, the woods, and long canals reply. 



Serving coffee 
described. 



The Coffee. 

For lo ! the board with cups and spoons is crown'd. 
The berries crackle and the mill turns round ; 
On shining altars of Japan they raise 
The silver lamp ; the fiery spirits blaze ; 
From silver spouts the graceful liquors glide. 
While China's earth receives the smoking tide ; 
At once they gratify their sense and taste, 
And frequent cups prolong the rich repast. 
Straight hover round the fair her airy band. 
Some, as she sipp'd, the fuming liquor fann'd ; 
Some, o'er her lap their careful plumes display'd. 
Trembling, and conscious of the rich brocade. 
Coffee (which makes the politician wise, 
And see through all things with his half-shut eyes) 
Sent up in vapors to the baron's brain 
New stratagems the radiant lock to gain. 
Ah, cease, rash youth ! desist ere 'tis too late, 
Fear the just gods, and think of Scylla's fate ! 
Chang'd to a bird, and sent to flit in air, 
She dearly pays for Nisus' injured hair ! 



Process of 
stealing the 
lock. 



The Clipping. 

Just then Clarissa drew, with tempting grace, 
A two-edg'd weapon from her shining case ; 
So ladies in romance assist their knight, 
Present the spear, and arm him for the fight. 
He takes the gift with reverence, and extends 



Pope and Lady Mary. 31 

The little engine on his finger ends ; 

This just behind Belinda's neck he spread, 

As o'er the fragrant stream she bends her head. 

Swift to the lock a thousand sprites repair, 

A thousand wings by turns blow back the hair ! 

And thrice they twitch'd the diamond in her ear ; 

Thrice she look'd back, and thrice the foe drew near. 

Just in that instant, anxious Ariel sought 

The close recesses of the virgin's thought ; 

As on the nosegay in her breast reclin'd. 

He watch'd the ideas rising in her mind, 

Sudden he view'd, in spite of all her art. 

An earthly lover lurking at her heart. 

Amaz'd, confus'd, he found his power expir'd, 

Resign' d to fate, and with a sigh retir'd. 

The peer now spread the glittering forfex wide 
T'inclose the lock ; now joins it, to divide. 
Ev'n then, before the fatal engine clos'd, 
A wretched sylph too fondly interpos'd ; 
Fate urged the shears and cut the sylph in twain ; 
(But airy substance soon unites again ;) 
The meeting points the sacred hair dissever, 
From the fair head, forever and forever. 

Then flash'd the living lightning from her eyes. 
And screams of horror rend th' affright'd skies. 
Not louder shreaks to pitying heaven are cast 
When husbands or when lap-dogs breathe their last ! 
Or when rich china vessels, fall'n from high, The consum- 

In glittering dust and painted fragments lie. 



The scissors. 



mation. 



The Revenge. 

See fierce Belinda on the baron flies 
With more than usual lightnings in her eyes : 
Nor fear'd the chief th' unequal fight to try. 
Who sought no more than on his foe to die. 
But this bold lord, with manly strength endued. 
She with one finger and a thumb subdued ; 
Just where the breath of life his nostrils drew 
A charge of snuff" the wily virgin threw ; 



32 Me7i and Mariners of the Eighteenth Centiuy. 



Belinda's 
weapon. 



Disappearance 

of tlie lock. 



The gnomes direct, to every atom just, 
The pungent grains of titillating dust. 
Sudden, with startling tears each eye o'erflows, 
And the high dome reechoes to his nose. 

" Now meet thy fate ! " incens'd Belinda cry'd, 
And drew a deadly bodkin from her side. 
(The same, his ancient personage to deck, 
Her great-great-grandsire wore about his neck, 
In three seal rings ; which after, melted down, 
Form'd a vast buckle for his widow's gown ; 
Her infant grandame's whistle next it grew, 
The bell she jingled and the whistle blew ; 
Then in a bodkin graced her mother's hairs, 
Which long she wore and now Belinda wears. ) 

' ' Boast not my fall, " he cry ' d, " insulting foe ! 
Thou by some other shalt be laid as low ; 
Nor think, to die dejects my lofty mind : 
All that I dread is leaving you behind ! 
Rather than so, ah ! let me still survive, 
And burn in Cupid's flames — but burn alive." 

" Restore the lock ! " she cries ; and all around, 
Restore the lock ! " the vaulted roofs rebound. 
Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain 
Roar'd for the handkerchief that caus'd his pain. 
But see how oft ambidous aims are cross'd, 
And chiefs contend till all the prize is lost ! 
The lock, obtain'd with guilt and kept with pain. 
In every place is sought, but sought in vain : 
With such a prize no mortal must be blest — 
So heaven decrees ! With heaven who can contest ? 

Some thought it mounted to the lunar sphere. 
Since all things lost on earth are treasured there ; 
There heroes' wits are kept in ponderous vases, 
And beaux' in snuff"-bo.xes and tweezer cases ; 
There broken vows and death-bed alms are found, 
And lovers' hearts with ends of ribband bound ; 
Cages for gnats and chains to yoke a flea, 
Dry'd butterflies and tomes of casuistry. 

But trust the Muse — she saw it upward rise, 
Though marked by none but quick poetic eyes ; 
(So Rome's great founder to the heavens withdrew. 



Pope and Lady Mary. 33 

To Proculus alone confess 'd in view :) 

A sudden star, it shot through Uquid air, Transposed to 

And drew behind a radiant trail of hair. ^'^^ skies. 

Not Berenice's locks first rose so bright, 

The heaven bespangling with dishevell'd light. 

The sylphs behold it kindling as it flies. 

And pleased, pursue its progress through the skies. 

This the beau-monde shall from the Mall survey, 

And hail with music its propitious ray. 

This the blest lover shall for Venus take, 

And send up vows from Rosamonda's lake. 

This Partridge soon shall view in cloudless skies 

When next he looks through Galilaeo's eyes ; 

And hence the egregious wizard shall foredoom 

The fate of Louis and the fall of Rome. 

Then cease, bright nymph ! to mourn thy ravish'd hair, 
Which adds new glory to the shining sphere ! 
Not all the tresses that fair head can boast 
Shall draw such envy as the lock you lost. 
For, after all the murders of your eye, 
When, after millions slain, yourself shall die ; 
When those fair suns shall set, as set they must. 
And all those tresses shall be laid in dust. 
This lock, the Muse shall consecrate to fame. 
And 'midst the stars inscribe Belinda's name. 

I put in this account of ombre to preserve the de- 
scription of one of the very most favorite pursuits of 
the fine ladies of the eighteenth century — cards. They 
played incessantly, and evidently for money. 



CHAPTER IV. 



Distinguished 
position of 
Pope. 



Pope had now reached independence, and became 
the acknowledged head of the Hterary world ; there 
were indeed few eminent persons of the time, either in 
political or literary circles, with whom this sensitive and 
restless little invalid did not come into contact, hostile 
or friendly, at some part of his career. His friendships 
were keen and his hostilities more than proportionately 
bitter. We see his fragile figure glancing rapidly from 
one hospitable circle to another, but always standing 
a little apart ; now paying court to some conspicuous 
wit, or philosopher, or statesman, or beauty ; now 
taking deadly ofiense for some inexplicable reason ; 
writhing with agony under clumsy blows which a 
robuster nature would have met with contemptuous 
laughter ; racking his wits to contrive exquisite compli- 
ments, and suddenly exploding with sheer Billingsgate, 
always preoccupied with his last literary project ; and 
yet finding time for innumerable intrigues, for carrying 
out schemes of vengeance for wounded vanity, and 
for introducing himself into every quarrel that was 
going on around him. 

When Pope finished his translation of the Iliad, his 
Mistranslation friend Gay congratulated him in a pleasant copy of 
verses. Gay represents himself welcoming his friend 
on the return from a long voyage, meaning the occupa- 
tion of his mind in Greece, although Pope had not 
stirred from England. 



of the Iliad. 



Pope a7id Lady Ma^y. 35 

Did I not see thee when thou first set'st sail 

To seek adventures fair in Homer's land ? Gay's verses on 

Did I not see thy sinking spirits fail, of^theuansla" 

And wish thy bark had never left the strand ? tion. 

Ev'n in mid ocean often didst thou quail, 

And oft lift up thy holy eye and hand. 
Praying the virgin dear and saintly choir 
Back to the port to bring thy bark entire. 

Cheer up, my friend ! thy dangers now are o'er ; 

Methinks — nay, sure the rising coasts appear. 
Hark ! how the guns salute from either shore, 

As thy trim vessel cuts the Thames so fair ; 
Shouts answering shouts from Kent and Essex roar. 

And bells break loud through every gust of air : 
Bonfires do blaze and bones and cleavers ring 
As at the coming of some mighty king. 



Oh, what a concourse swarms on yonder quay ! 

The sky reechoes with new shouts of joy ; awaits the 

By all this show, I ween, 'tis Lord Mayor's day ; vessel. 

I hear the sound of trumpet and haut-boy — 
No, now I see them near — Oh, these are they 

Who come in crowds to welcome thee from Troy. 
Hail to the bard, whom long lost we mourned ; 
From siege, from battle, and from storm returned ! 

Of goodly dames and courteous knights I view 

The silken petticoat and broider'd vest ; 
Yea, peers and mighty dukes, with ribbands blue 

(True blue, fair emblem of unstained breast). 
Others I see, as noble and more true. 

By no court-badge distinguished from the rest : 
First see I Methuen, of sincerest mind, 
As Arthur grave, as soft as womankind. 

What lady's that to whom he gently bends ? 

Who knows not her ? Ah ! those are Wortley's eyes. Ladies fair. 
How art thou honor'd number'd with her friends ! 

For she distinguishes the good and wise. 
The sweet-tongued Murray near her side attends ; 



36 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Centtcry. 

Now to my heart the glance of Howard flies ; 
Now Hervey, fair of face, I mark full well, 
With thee, youth's youngest daughter, sweet Lepell ! 



How lov'd, how honor' d thou ! yet be not vain ; 

And sure thou art not, for I hear thee say. 
All this, my friends, I owe to Homer's strain, 

On whose strong pinions I exalt my lay. 
What from contending cities did he gain ? 

And what rewards his grateful country pay ? 
None, none were paid — why then all this for me ? 
These honors. Homer, had been just to thee. 

Lady Mary writes her sister, the Countess of Mar, 
Letters of Lady in Paris from Twickenham, 1720: 

Mary con- 

*'"'^^'^' I have no answer, dear sister, to a long letter that I wrote 

you a month ago ; however, I shall continue letting you know 
de tetnps en temps what passes in this corner of the world till 
you tell me 'tis disagreeable. ... I pass my time in a 
small snug set of dear intimates and go very little into the 
grmid inonde, which has already my hearty contempt. I see 
sometimes Mr. Congreve and very seldom Mr. Pope, who 
continues to embellish his house at Twickenham. He has 
made a subterranean grotto, which he has furnished with look- 
ing glasses, and they tell me it has a very good effect. I here 
send you some verses addressed to Mr. Gay, who wrote him a 
congratulatory letter on the finishing of his house. I stifled 
them here, and I beg they may die the same death in Paris, 
and never go further than your closet. 

Ah friend, 'tis true — this truth you lovers know, 
In vain my structures rise, my gardens grow, 
In vain fair Thames reflects the double scenes 
Of hanging mountains and of sloping greens : 
Joy lives not here ; to happier seats it flies 
And only dwells where Wortley casts her eyes. 

The intercourse between Pope and Lady Mary was 

Intercourse marked by sentiment, or sentimentahty, on his side, 

Mary aiid common scnsc ou hers, as the following incident illus- 

°^^' trates. The most characteristic of Pope's letters is 



Pope and Lady Mary. 37 



one in which he relates something- that he had seen one 
day — a thunder-storm in a field. The lightning struck 
two rustic lovers, and they were found lying dead in 
each other's arms. Pope was staying with Gay at the 
time, and he wrote down the incident in true pastoral 
style in a letter to Lady Mary. She replied by a cruel 
dose of common sense, with the addition of a doggerel 
epitaph turning his fine phrases into ridicule. 

After her removal to Twickenham the intimacy was 
continued. He got Kneller to paint her portrait, and Close 

1 . 1 T, 1 • • r intimacy. 

tontmued to write adormg letters. But the spirit of a cor- 
respondence which did very well between Twickenham 
and Constantinople languished when the parties were in 
the same parish, and in time the tenderness, if it ever 
really existed, changed into antipathy. It was said at the 
time that the poor poet once forgot himself for a moment 
so far as to make her a passionate declaration of love, 
which she received with an ' ' immoderate fit of laugh- 
ter, ' ' after which he was forever her implacable enemy. Coolness. 

Pope brooded on this resentment, and years after 
revenged himself in one of his poems by a couplet aimed 
chiefly against Lady Mary. She retaliated in a copy of 
verses, chiefly, if not exclusively, her own, in which 
Pope is brutally taunted with his personal deformity. 
To the end of their lives the two people once so 
devoted to each other could use nothing but bitter 
epithets in speaking each of the other. 

After Pope's " Dunciad " appeared. Lady Mary 
amused herself by the following bit of parody, concern- 
ing the grotto previously refer-red to. 

The Court of Dulness. A Fragment. 

Her palace plac'd beneath a muddy road. 
And such the influence of her dull abode. 



Quarrel. 



38 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 

The carrier's horse above can scarcely drag his load. 

Here chose the goddess her belov'd retreat, 

Which Phoebus tries in vain to penetrate ; 

Adorned within with shells of small expense, 

(Emblems of tinsel rhyme and trifling sense), 

' Perpetual fogs enclose the sacred cave. 

Satire on the The neighboring sinks their fragrant odors gave ; 

Twickenham > ^ i i- i- i j l i 

giotto. In contemplation here she passed her hours, 

Closely attended by subservient powers ; 

Bold profanation with a brazen brow, — 

Much to this great ally doth dulness owe ; 

But still more near the goddess you attend, 

Naked obscenity ! her darling friend. 

To thee for shelter all the dull still fly, 

Pert double meanings e'en at school we try, 

What numerous writers owe their praise to thee, 

No sex — no age — is from thy influence free. 

By thee, how bright appears the senseless song, 

By thee the book is sold, the lines are strong. 

The heaviest poet, by thy powerful aid. 

Warms the brisk youth, and charms the sprightly maid ; 

Where breathes the mortal who's not proved thy force 

In well-bred pun, or waiting-room discourse ? 

Lady Mary continued, from Twickenham or Cavendish 
Square, to write amusing letters to her sister in Paris. 

I was very glad to hear from you, though there was some- 
thing in your letters very monstrous and shocking ; I wonder 
with what conscience you can talk to me oi your being an old 
woman ; I beg I may hear no more on't. For my part I pre- 
tend to be as young as ever, and really am as young as needs 
to be, to all intents and purposes. My cure for lowness of 
Cure for low, spirits is galloping all day, and a moderate glass of champagne 
at night in good company ; and I believe this regimen, closely 
followed, is one of the most wholesome that can be prescribed, 
and may save one a world of doctors' fees at the year's end. 
I rode to Twickenham last night, and after so long a stay in 
town am not sorry to find myself in my garden ; our neighbor- 
hood is something improved by the removal of some old maids 
and the arrival of some fine gentlemen. Doctor Swift and 



spirits. 



Pope and Lady Mary. 



39 



Johnny Gay are at Pope's, and their conjunction has produced 
a ballad. . . . 

Since you find it so difficult to send me the lutestring that 
I asked for, I beg you would lay out my money in a nightgown 
ready made ; there can be no difficulty in sending that by the 
first person that comes over. I shall like it the better for your 
having worn it one day, and then it may be answered for that it , . „ 
is not new. . . . Apropos of ballads, a most delightful one is '' ^ 
said or sung in most houses which has been laid first to Pope ' 
and then to me, when God knows we have neither of us wit 
enough to make it. ; 

After a list of matches, love-affairs, and matrimonial society gossip; 
difficulties in society she adds : 

This, I think, is the whole state of love ; as to that of wit, 
it splits itself into ten thousand branches ; poets increase and 
multiply to that stupendous degree you see them at every turn, 
even in embroidered coats and pink-colored top-knots ; making 
verses is become almost as common as taking snuff ; no one can 
tell what miserable stuff people carry about in their pockets, 
and offer to all their acquaintances, and you know one cannot 
refuse reading and taking a pinch. This is a very great griev- 
ance, and so particularly shocking to me, that I think our wise 
law-givers should take it into consideration, and appoint a fast 
day to beseech Heaven to put a stop to this epidemical disease, 
as they did last year with great success. 

Adieu, dear sister, pray do not forget the nightgown, and let 
it be what you please. 

Twickenham, October 20, 1723, 

I am very sorry, dear sister, that you are in so melancholy a 

way, but I hope a return to Paris will revive your spirits. I 

had much rather have said London, but I do not presume 

upon so much happiness. 

As for news, the last wedding is that of Peg Pelham, and j 

I have never seen so comfortable a prospect of happiness ; 

according to all appearances she cannot fail of being a widow 

in six weeks at farthest, and accordingly she has been so good 

a housewife as to line her wedding clothes in black. Assem- 

, . . Assemblies the 

blies rage in this part of the world ; there is not a street m rage. 

town free from them and some spirited ladies go to seven in a 



40 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Ceyitury. 



Description of 
her daily life. 



night. You need not question but love and play flourish under 
these encouragements ; I now and then peep upon these 
things with the same coolness I would do on a moving picture. 
I laugh at some of the motions, wonder at others, and then 
retire to the elected few who have ears to hear, but mouths 
have they and speak not. 

Lady Mary was born in 1690, and this was written 
therefore when she was thirty-three. ,She goes on : 

My life passes in a kind of indolence which is now and then 
awakened by agreeable moments ; but pleasures are transitory 
and the groundwork of everything in England stupidity, 
which is certainly owing to the coldness of this vile climate. 
Death and sickness have never been more frequent than now. 
You may imagine that poor gallantry droops ; and except in 
the Elysian shades of Richmond there is no such thing as love 
or pleasure. I have very little share in the diversions there, 
which, except seasoned with wit, or at least vivacity, will not 
go down with me, who have not altogether so voracious an 
appetite as I once had ; I intend however to shine and be fine 
on the birth-nisfht and review the fiarures there. 



Account of a 
birth-night. 



October 31, 172J. 
I write to you at this time piping hot from the birth-night ; 
my brain warmed with all the agreeable ideas that fine clothes, 
fine gentlemen, brisk tunes, and lively dances can raise there. 
It is to be hoped that my letter will entertain you ; at least you 
will certainly have the freshest account of all passages on that 
glorious day. First you must know that I led up the ball, 
which you'll stare at ; but, what is more, I believe in my con- 
science I made one of the best figures there ; to say truth, 
people are grown so extravagantly ugly that we old beauties 
are forced to come out on show-days, to keep the court in 
countenance. , . . This is the general state of affairs ; as to 
particulars, if you have any curiosity for things of that kind, 
you have nothing to do but to ask me questions, and they 
shall be answered to the best of my understanding ; my time 
never being passed more agreeably than when I am doing 
something obliging to you ; this is truth, in spite of all the 
beaus, wits, and witlings in Great Britain. 



Pope and Lady Mary. 41 



Cavendish Square, 1724. 
Dear Sister : This town improves in gaiety every day, the 
young people are younger than they used to be, and all the old memrbN'Vand 
are grown young. Nothing is talked of but entertainments of ^'"^ '"'''''''• 
gallantry by land and water, and we insensibly begin to taste all 
the joys of arbitrary power. Politics are no more, nobody 
pretends to winch or kick under their burthens, but we go on 
cheerfully with our bells at our ears, ornamented with ribbands 
and highly contented with our present conditions ; so much for 
the general state of the nation. The last pleasure that fell in 
my way was Madame S^vign^'s letters. Very pretty they are, 
but I assert, without the least vanity, that mine will be full as 
entertaining forty years hence. I advise you therefore to put 
none of them to the use of waste paper. 

Cavendish Square, 1727. 
. . . I cannot deny but that I was very well diverted on 
the coronation day [of George II.]. I saw the procession Geo?"^!?" "^ 
much at my ease in a house which I filled with my own 
company, and then got into Westminster Hall without trouble, 
where it was very entertaining to observe the variety of airs 
that all meant the same thing. The business of every walker 
there was to conceal vanity and gain admiration. For these 
purposes some languished and others strutted ; but a visible 
satisfaction was diffused on every countenance, as soon as the 
coronet was clapped on the head. But she that drew the 
greatest number of eyes was indisputably Lady Orkney. She 
exposed behind a mixture of fat and wrinkles, and before, a 
very considerable protuberance which preceded her. Add to 
this the inimitable roll of her eyes and her gray hairs, which 
by good fortune stood directly upright, and 'tis impossible to 
imagine a more delightful spectacle. She had embellished all 
this with considerable magnificence, which made her look as 
big again as usual ; and I should have thought her one of the 
largest things of God's making if my Lady St. John had not 
displayed all her charms in honor of the day. The poor 
duchess of Montrose crept along with a dozen of black snakes 
playing round her face, and my Lady Portland (who has fallen 
away since her dismission from court) represented very finely 
an Egyptian mummy embroidered over with hieroglyphics. 
In general, I could not perceive but that the old were as well 



42 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Ceyitiuy. 



Life in 

Southern 

Europe. 



pleased as the young ; and I, who dread growing wise more 
than anything in the world, was overjoyed to find that one can 
never outlive one's vanity. 

These letters are chosen from the many written by 
,Lady Mary during her life in the world of fashion and 
literature. In 1739 her health declined and she took the 
resolution of passing the remainder of her days on the 
Continent, with the full assent of Mr. Wortley, with 
whom, moreover, she kept up a continuous correspon- 
dence until his death in 1761. During all this time she 
remained in the southern part of Europe, writing always 
most amusing and entertaining letters about everything 
she saw. Her accounts of the manner of living in 
Venice, at Louvere, or at Geneva, show as great a 
difference from that of the present day as her English 
ones do, but it is not so much within our subject to dwell 
on these points, however amusing. On the Lake of Isco 
she took possession of a deserted palace ; she planned 
her garden, applied herself to the business of a country 
life, and was happy in the superintendence of her vine- 
yards and silk-worms. English books, sent her by her 
daughter. Lady Bute, supplied the deficiency of society, 
and she appears to have enjoyed most sincerely her 
repose from the occupations of the gay world. To Mr. 
Wortley she writes in 1748 : 

I am very much pleased that you accustom yourself to tea, 
being persuaded that the moderate use of it is generally whole- 
some. I have planted a great deal in my garden, which is a 
fashion lately introduced in this country, and has succeeded 
very well. I cannot say it is as strong as the Indian, but it has 
the advantage of being fresher, and is at least unmixed. 

Lady Mary's After an abscncc of twenty-two years. Lady Mary 

England returned to England, arriving in October, but her health 

had suffered much and a gradual decline terminated in 



Pope a7id Lady Mary. a-. 



death on the 21st of August, 1762, and in the seventy- „„,,„,. 
third year of her age. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

Works of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu. Moy Thomas 
(Bohn, 1861.) 

Alexander Pope. Leslie Stephen. (Morley's Men of Letters 
Series. ) 

Pope's Complete Works. 

Smith's Smaller History of English Literature. James 
Rowley, M. A. (London.) 

Walks in London. A. J. C. Hare. (Latest revised edition, 
1894, London.) ' 

Compendium of English History. A. B. Edwards. 



BOOK II. 
CHARLOTTE LENNOX. 



Mrs. Lennox 
crowned by Dr. 
Johnson. 



Her works. 



CHAPTER V. , 

Among the literary names preserved by Boswell and 
Horace Walpole, says Chambers' s Encyclopaedia, is that 
of Mrs. Charlotte Lennox (i 720-1 804). The first 
novel of this lady was celebrated with a sumptuous sup- 
per at the Devil's Tavern, where Dr. Johnson invested 
the authoress with a crown of laurel. Until 1788 
existed the famous Devil's Tavern in Fleet Street, with 
the sign of St. Dunstan and the Devil, where the Royal 
Society held its dinners, and where the Apollo Club 
held its meetings, guided by poetical rules of Ben Jon- 
son which began : 

Let none but guests or clubbers hither come ; 
Let dunces, fools, and sordid men keep home ; 
Let learned, civil, merry men b' invited 
And modest too ; nor be choice liquor slighted. 
Let nothing in the treat offend the guest ; 
More for delight than cost prepare the feast. 

She wrote several novels, and some comedies, com- 
piled and translated other works, probably for the sake 
of the money she could earn by them. Her name would 
hardly survive to this day but that Mrs. Barbauld allowed 
her a place in her excellent edition of the ' ' British 
Novelists of the Eighteenth Century, ' ' published in 1 800, 
a collection without which I should be lost in the pur- 
suit of my favorite old books. Mrs. Barbauld says that 
Mrs. Lennox, ' ' a very respectable writer, born at New 



Charlotte Lennox. 45 

York, was a diligent and successful author. Her exer- 
tions did not place her in easy circumstances, for she 
died poor in 1804." 

Lady Mary Wortley, a voracious reader of ' ' all the 
novels that had been invented ' ' in her time, speaks of 
one and another of her books as they appear with 
friendly comment, but under the impression that they 
were written by her cousin, Sally Fielding, the sister of 
the brilliant author of ' ' Tom Tones. ' ' Lady Mary says : Lady Mary's 

•' J J J comment. 

"The Art of Tormenting " and " The Female Quixote " are 
sale work. I suppose they proceed from her pen, and I 
heartily pity her, constrained by her circumstances to seek her 
bread by a method I do not doubt she despises. She has 
mended her style in the last volume of " David Simple," which 
conveys a useful moral, though she does not seem to have 
intended it. 

" ' David Simple ' ' is such a ' ' dreadful ' ' stupid book 
that I myself have never succeeded in reaching the 
third volume. 

There is a slight reference to Charlotte Lennox in 

, 1 • f A yi.\^% Burney's 

Fanny Burney s diary of August 26, 1778 : reference. 

Dr. Johnson gave us an account of Mrs. Lennox. Her 
"Female Quixote" is very justly admired here. But Mrs. 
Thrale says that though her books are generally approved, 
nobody likes her. I find she, among others, waited on Dr. 
Johnson upon her commencing writing, and he told us that at 
her request he carried her to Richardson. ' ' Poor Charlotte 
Lennox!" continued he. "When we came to the house she 
desired me to leave her; 'for,' says she, 'I am under great 
restraint in your presence ; but if you leave me alone with 
Richardson, I'll give you a very good account of him.' How- 
ever, I fear she was disappointed, for she gave me no account 
at all." 

Poor Charlotte's "Sophia," "Henrietta," etc., are 
absolute rubbish, but the "Female Quixote," published giJixotef" 
in 1752, and perpetuated by Mrs. Barbauld, is precious 



46 Men and Manner's of the Eighteenth Century. 

for preserving to the world the best impression we have 
of what the old, old romances of the Calpr^nede and 
Scudery school really were ; sparing us an effort which 
even I am incapable of — that is, wading through the 
black volumes like those beloved of the old nurse in the 
Wortley family, and even of Lady Mary herself and her 
contemporaries. 

It is an agreeable and ingenious satire upon the old 
romances, and I really think it is written in a modern 
Account of the spirit, and that Arabella, the heroine, has more good 
stufT in her than other imaginary ladies of the time 
who have been more praised. She is supposed to 
have been brought up in the country and secluded 
from all society, but allowed to amuse herself in an old 
library furnished with the works of these voluminous 
authors. Of course she imbibes their views of life, 
and when she comes out into the world, possessed of 
beauty and fortune, it is with a pronounced ignorance 
of every circumstance of real life and manners. She 
fancies every man who speaks to her to be secretly in 
love with her, and is in constant apprehension of being 
forcibly carried of5. 

The extracts I shall give are those which throw 
light upon the style of the older books, and, condensed 
as these extracts are, I am sure they will sufficiently 
impress the reader with a sense of their dulness, a 
dulness from which Mrs. Lennox in a measure rescued 
her readers by the vivacity of her heroine, who seems 
modern by contrast. The disadvantage of her book, 
as Mrs. Barbauld already observes, is that the satire 
has now no object. She says : 

Most young ladies of the present day, instead of requiring to 
be cured of reading those bulky romances, would acquire the 
first information of their manner (and we may now say of 



Charlotte Lennox. 47 



their existence) from the work designed to ridicule them. 

Mrs. Barbauld adds : 

The style of Mrs. Lennox is easy, but it does not rise to the 
elegance attained by many, more modern, female writers. 

' ' Henrietta ' ' begins with the incident of two young 
ladies, who are perfect strangers to each other, meeting 
in a stage coach, when after a few minutes' conversation 
one of them exclaims, * ' Let us swear an eternal friend- 
ship" — the words taken from the "Anti-Jacobin," a 
satire, well known in its time, upon the sentimental 
German plays of Kotzebue and others. "Henrietta" is 
agreeably absurd, but not worth preserving. 



' Henrietta. 



CHAPTER VI. 



The Marquis of ■ 



-, for a long series of years, was the 



Beginning of 
"The Female 
Quixote." 



Arabella's 
birth. 



first and most distinguisiied favorite at court ; he held the most 
honorable employments under the crown, disposed of all places 
of profit as he pleased, presided at the council, and, in a man- 
ner, governed the whole kingdom. This extensive authority 
could not fail of making him many enemies ; he fell at last a 
sacrifice to the plots they were continually forming against him ; 
and was not only removed from all his employments, but ban- 
ished the court forever. The pain his undeserved disgrace gave 
him he was enabled to conceal by the natural haughtiness of 
his temper ; and, behaving rather like a man who had resigned 
than been dismissed from his post, he imagined he triumphed 
sufficiently over the malice of his enemies, while he seemed to 
be wholly insensible of the effects it produced. His secret dis- 
content, however, was so much augmented by the opportunity 
he now had of observing the baseness and ingratitude of man- 
kind, which in some degree he experienced every day, that he 
resolved to quit all society whatever, and devote the rest of his 
life to solitude and privacy. For the place of his retreat he 
pitched upon a castle he had in a very remote province of the 
kingdom, in the neighborhood of a small village, and several 
miles distant from any town. The vast extent of ground 
which surrounded this noble building he had caused to be laid 
out in a manner peculiar to his taste ; the most laborious 
endeavors of art had been used to make it appear like the 
beautiful product of wild uncultivated nature. But if this 
_ epitome of Arcadia could boast of only artless and simple 
beauties, the inside of the castle was adorned with a magnifi- 
cence suitable to the dignity and immense riches of the owner. 

Here was Arabella born, and, after the early death of 
her mother, grew up in solitude except for the com- 
panionship of the marquis. 

Nature had, indeed, given her a most charming face, a shape 



Charlotte Len^iox. 



49 



easy and delicate, a sweet and insinuating voice, and an air so 
full of dignity and grace as drew the admiration of all that saw 
her. These native charms were improved with all the height- 
enings of art ; her dress was perfectly magnificent, the best 
masters of music and dancing were sent for from London to 
attend her. She soon became a perfect mistress of the French 
and Italian languages, under the care of her father ; and it is 
not to be doubted but she would have made a great proficiency 
in all useful knowledge had not her whole time been taken up 
by another study. 

From her earliest youth she had discovered a fondness for 
reading, which extremely delighted the marquis ; he permitted 
her, therefore, the use of his library, in -which, unfortunately for 
her, were great store of romances and, what was still more 
unfortunate, not in the original French, but very bad transla- 
tions. 

The deceased marchioness had purchased these books to 
soften a solitude which she found very disagreeable ; and after French 

•^ ■" . romances. 

her death the marquis removed them from her closet mto his 
library, where Arabella found them. The surprising adven- 
tures with which they were filled proved a most pleasing enter- 
tainment to a young lady who was wholly secluded from the 
world, who had no other diversion but ranging like a nymph 
through gardens, or, to say better, the woods and lawns in 
which she was enclosed ; and who had no other conversation 
but that of a grave and melancholy father, or her own atten- 
dants. 

Her ideas, from the manner of her life and the objects 
around her, had taken a romantic turn ; and, supposing 
romances were real pictures of life, from them she drew all her 
notions and expectations. By them she was taught to believe 
that love was the ruling principle of the world ; that every other 
passion was subordinate to this ; and that it caused all the 
happiness and miseries of life. Her glass, which she often 
consulted, always showed her a form so extremely lovely that, 
not finding herself engaged in such adventures as were common 
to the heroines in the romances she read, she often complained 
of the insensibility of mankind, upon whom her charms seemed 
to have so little influence. 

The perfect retirement she lived in afforded, indeed, no 
opportunities of making the conquests she desired, but she 



Sentimental 
turn. 



50 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 

could not comprehend how any solitude could be obscure 
enough to conceal a beauty like hers from notice ; and thought 
the reputation of her charms sufficient to bring a crowd of 
adorers to demand her of her father. Her mind being wholly 
filled with the most extravagant expectations, she was alarmed 
by every trifling incident ; and kept in a continual anxiety by a 
vicissitude of hopes and fears. 



Arabella at 
church. 



The London 
admirer. 



This chapter contains a description of a ladys dress in fashion 
not much above two thousand years ago. The beginning of 
an adventure which seems to promise a great deal. 

Arabella had now entered into her seventeenth year, with 
the regret of seeing herself the object of admiration to a few 
rustics only, who happened to see her ; when, one Sunday, 
making use of the permission the marquis sometimes allowed 
her to attend divine service at the church belonging to the 
village near which they lived, her vanity was flattered with an 
adorer not altogether unworthy of her notice. 

This gentleman was young, gay, handsome, and very ele- 
gantly dressed : he was just come from London with the inten- 
tion to pass some weeks with a friend in that part of the 
country ; and at the time Arabella entered the church, his 
eyes, which had wandered from one rural fair to another, were 
in an instant fixed upon her face. She blushed with a very 
becoming modesty ; and, pleased with the unusual appearance 
of so fine a gentleman, and the particular notice he took of her, 
passed on to her seat through a double row of country people, 
who, with a profusion of awkward bows and curtsies, expressed 
their respect. Mr. Hervey, for that was the stranger's name, 
was no less surprised at her beauty than the singularity of her 
dress, and the odd whim of being followed into the church by 
three women attendants, who, as soon as she was seated, took 
.their places behind her. Her dress, though singular, was far 
from being unbecoming. All the beauties of her neck and 
shape were set off to the greatest advantage by the fashion of 
her gown, which, in the manner of a robe, was made to sit 
tight to her body and fastened on the breast by a knot of dia- 
monds. Her fine black hair hung upon her neck in curls, which 
had so much the appearance of being artless that all but her 
maid, whose employment it was to give them that form, imag- 



Charlotte Lennox. 



51 



Singular 
demeanor of 
Arabella. 



ined they were so. Her head-dress was only a few knots, 
advantageously disposed, over which she wore a white sarsenet 
hood, somewhat in the form of a veil, with which she some- 
times wholly covered her fair face when she saw herself beheld 
with too much attention. 

This veil had never appeared to her so necessary before. 
Mr. Hervey's eager glances threw her into so much confusion, 
that pulling it over her face as much as she was able, she 
remained invisible to him all the time that they afterward 
stayed in the church. This action, by which she would have 
had him understand that she was displeased at his gazing on 
her with so little respect, only increased his curiosity to know 
who she was. When the congregation was dismissed, he 
hastened to the door, with an intention to offer her his hand to 
help her to her coach ; but seeing the magnificent equipage 
that waited for her, and the number of servants that 'attended 
it, he conceived a much higher idea of her quality than he had 
at first ; and, changing his design, contented himself with only 
bowing to her as she passed ; and as soon as her coach drove 
away, inquired of some person nearest him who she was. 

Mr. Hervey, although amazed, was quite inclined to surprise of Mr. 
fall seriously in love with the lady. Hervey. 

Arabella in the meantime was wholly taken up with the 
adventure, as she called it, at church ; the person and dress of 
the gentleman who had so particularly gazed on her there 
was so different from what she had been accustomed to see 
that she immediately concluded he was of some distinguished 
rank. It was past a doubt, she thought, that he was ex- 
cessively in love with her ; and, as she soon expected to have 
some very extraordinary proofs of his passion, her thoughts 
were wholly employed on the manner in which she should 
receive them. 

As soon as she came home and had paid her duty to the 
marquis she hurried to her chamber to be at liberty to indulge 
her agreeable reflections ; and, after the example of our 
heroines, when anything extraordinary happened to them, 
called her favorite woman, or, to use her own language, her in 
whom she confided her most secret thoughts. 

"Well, Lucy," said she, "did you observe that stranger who Conversation 
ey'd us so heedfully at church to-day ? " 



52 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 

This girl, notwithstanding her country simplicity, knew a 
compliment was expected from her on this occasion, and there- 
fore replied that she did not wonder at the gentleman's staring 
at her ; for she was sure he had never seen anybody so hand- 
some as her ladyship before. 

"I have not all the beauty which you attribute to me," said 
Arabella, smiling a little ; "and with a very moderate share of 
it I might well fix the attention of a person who seemed not to 
be over much pleased with the objects about him. However," 
pursued she, assuming a more serious air, "if this stranger be 
weak enough to entertain any sentiments more than indifferent 
for me, I charge you upon pain of my displeasure, do not be 
accessory to the conveying his presumptuous thoughts to me, 
either by letters or messages, nor suffer him to corrupt your 
fidelity with the presents he will very probably offer you." 

Mr. Hervey Mr, Hervcy, after a few attempts at correspondence, 

iscourage . g^ye up all idea of a conquest, and an accident which 

brought her in his way again concluded the adventure. 

The marquis sometimes permitting his daughter to ride out, 
and this being the only diversion she was allowed or ever ex- 
perienced, she did not fail to take it as often as she could. She 
was returning from one of these airings one day, attended by 
two servants, when Mr. Hervey, who happened to be at some 
distance, observing a lady on horseback who made a very 
graceful figure, he rode up to her in order to have a nearer 
view ; and knowing Lady Bella again, resolved to speak to 
her : but while he was considering how he should accost her, 
Arabella suddenly seeing him and observing he was making 
up to her, her imagination immediately suggested to her that 
this insolent lover had a design to seize her person ; and this 
thought terrifying her extremely, she gave a loud shriek, which 
Mr. Hervey hearing, rode eagerly up to her to inquire the 
reason of it, at the same time that her two attendants, as much 
amazed as himself, came galloping up also. 

Arabella, upon his coming close up to her, redoubled her 
cries. "If you have any valor," said she to her servants, 
"defend your unfortunate mistress and rescue her from this 
unworthy man." 

The servants, believing him to be a highwayman by this 



The adventure. 



Charlotte Len^iox. 



53 



exclamation, and dreading lest he should present a pistol at 
their heads if they offered to make any resistance, recoiled a 
few paces back, expecting he would demand their purses when 
he had robbed their lady, but the extreme surprise he was in 
keeping him motionless, the fellows not seeing any pistols in 
his hand, and animated by Arabella's cries, who, calling them 
cowards and traitors, urged them to deliver her, they both in a 
moment laid hold of Mr. Hervey and forced him to alight, 
which they did also themselves, still keeping fast hold of him, 
whom surprise, shame, and rage had hitherto kept silent. 

" Rascals," cried he, when he was able to speak, "what do 
you mean by using me in this manner ? Do you suppose I had 
any Intention to hurt the lady ? What do you take me for ? " 

"For a ravisher," interrupted Arabella; "an impious rav- 
isher ! who, contrary to all laws, both human and divine, en- 
deavor to possess yourself by force of a person whom you are 
not worthy to serve, and whose charity and compassion you 
have returned with the utmost ingratitude." 

Mr. Hervey was very naturally furious at being so surrenderor 
treated, but beginning to reflect that carrying off an the hanger, 
lieiress was no joke, he controlled himself and delivered 
his ' ' hanger ' ' to the servant, while he assured her that 
lie had no evil designs. Said Arabella, sternly : 

"Add not falsehood to a crime already black enough; for 
though by an effort of my generosity I have resolved not to 
deliver you up to the resentment of my father, yet nothing 
shall ever be able to make me pardon this outrage. Go, then, " 
pursued she ; " go, base man, unworthy of the care I took for 
thy safety ; go to some distant country where I may never hear 
of thee more, and suffer me if possible to lose the remem- 
brance of thy crimes." 

Saying this, she ordered her servants, who had yet the 
hanger in their possession, to set him at Hberty and mount 
their horses, which they did immediately, and followed their 
lady, who rode with all imaginable speed to the castle. 

. Mr. Hervey took himself away from the neighbor- ^^ Hervey 
hood and back to London as fast as possible. He was Londof/""^ 
now out of the scrape and is soon out of the book. 



54 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 



Another 
admirer. 



The admirer 
proves a lover. 



Approbation of 
the marquis. 



Other incidents of a like nature occurred, but Arabella had 
scarce done thinking of these adventures when the marquis 
communicated a piece of intelligence to her which opened a 
prospect of an infinite number of new ones. 

His nephew, having just returned from his travels, was 
' preparing to come and pay him a visit in his retreat ; and, as 
he always designed to marry Arabella to this youth, of whom 
he was extremely fond, he told his daughter of the intended 
visit of her cousin, whom she had not seen since she was eight 
years old ; and for the first time insinuated his design of 
giving him to her for an husband. 

Arabella, whose delicacy was extremely shocked by this 
abrupt declaration of her father, could hardly hide her cha- 
grin, for though she always intended to marry some time or 
other, as all the heroines had done, yet she thought such an 
event ought to be brought about with an infinite deal of 
trouble ; and that it was necessary she should pass to this state 
through a great number of cares, disappointments, and dis- 
tresses of various kinds like them ; that her lover should 
purchase her with his sword from a crowd of rivals, and arrive 
to the possession of her heart by many years of service and 
fidelity. 

The impropriety of receiving a lover of her father's recom- 
mending appeared in its strongest light. What lady in ro- 
mance ever married the man who was chosen for her? In 
those cases the remonstrances of a parent are called persecu- 
tions ; obstinate resistance, constancy and courage ; and an 
aptitude to dislike the person proposed to them, a noble free- 
dom of mind which disdains to love or hate by the caprice of 
others. 

Arabella, strengthening her own resolutions by those ex- 
amples of heroic disobedience, told her father, with great 
solemnity of accent, that she would always obey him in all just 
and reasonable things ; and being persuaded that he would 
never attempt to lay any force upon her inclinations, she 
would endeavor to make them conformable to his, and receive 
her cousin with that civility and friendship due to so near a 
relation and a person whom he honored with his esteem. 
The marquis, having had frequent occasions of admiring his 
daughter's eloquence, did not draw any unpleasing conclusion 
from the nice distinctions she made, and being perfectly 



Charlotte Len7iox. 



55 



assured of her consent whenever he demanded it, expected 
the arrival of his nephew with great impatience. 

Arabella, whose thoughts had been fully employed since this 
conversation with her father, was indulging her meditations in 
one of the most retired walks of the garden when she was 
informed by Lucy that her cousin was come and that the mar- 
quis had brought him into the garden to look for her. That 
instant they both entered the walk, when Arabella, prepos- 
sessed as she was against any favorable thoughts of the young 
Glanville, could not help betraying some surprise at the grace- 
fulness of his figure. " It must be confessed," said she to her 
attendant with a smile, " that this lover my father has brought 
us is no contemptible person ; nevertheless I feel an invin- 
cible repugnance in myself against receiving him in that char- 
acter." 

As she finished these words the marquis came up and pre- 
sented Mr. Glanville to her, who, saluting her with the freedom addresses. 
of a relation, gave her a disgust which showed itself immedi- 
ately in her fair face, which was overspread with such a gloom 
that the marquis was quite astonished at it. Indeed, Arabella, 
who expected he would hardly have presumed to kiss her 
hand, was so surprised at his freedom in attempting her lips 
that she not only expressed her indignation by frowns, but 
gave him to understand he had mortally offended her. Mr. 
Glanville, however, was neither surprised nor angry at her 
resentment ; but, imputing it to her country education, en- 
deavored to rally her out of her ill humor ; and the marquis, 
being glad to find a behavior which he thought proceeded from 
a dislike of her cousin was only an effect of an over-scrupulous 
modesty, told her that Mr. Glanville had committed no offense 
by saluting her, since that was a civility which was granted to 
all strangers at a first interview, and therefore could not be 
refused to a relation. 

"Since the world is so degenerated in its customs to what it 
was formerly," said Arabella with a smile full of contempt 
upon her cousin, "I am extremely happy to have lived in a 
solitude which has not yet exposed me to the mortification of 
being a witness to manners which I cannot approve ; for if 
every person I shall meet with for the future be so deficient in 
their respect to ladies as my cousin is, I shall not care how 
much I am excluded from society. ' ' 



Arabella's 
reserve. 



56 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 

"But, dear Lady Bella," interrupted Mr. Glanville gaily, 
"tell me, I beseech you, how I must behave to please you, for 
I should be extremely glad to be honored with your good 
opinion." 

"The person," resumed she, "whom I must teach how to 
acquire my good opinion will, I am afraid, hardly recompense 
rne by his docility in learning for the pains I should be at in 
instructing him." 

"But," resumed Glanville, "that I may avoid any more 
occasions of offending you, only let me know how you would 
be approached for the future." 

"Since," answered she, "there is no necessity to renew the 
ceremony of introducing you again to me, I have not a second 
affront of that kind to apprehend ; but I pray tell me if all 
cavaliers are as presuming as yourself ; and if a relation of 
your sex does not think a modest embrace from a lady a wel- 
come sufficiently tender ? " 

Custom of T\\Q heroines, though they think a kiss of the hand a 

the heroines. great condesccnsion to a man, and never grant it with- 
out blushes and confusion, yet make no scruple to em- 
brace him upon every short absence. 

"Nay, cousin," cried Glanville eagerly, "I am now per- 
suaded that you are in the right. An embrace is certainly to 
be preferred to a cold salute. What would I give that the 
marquis would introduce me a second time, that I might be 
received with so delightful a welcome ! " 

The vivacity with which he spoke this was so extremely 
disagreeable to Arabella that she turned from him abruptly, 
and, striking into another walk, ordered Lucy to tell him she 
commanded him not to follow her. 

Mr. Glanville, however, who had no notion of the exact 
.obedience which was expected from him, would have gone 
after her, notwithstanding this prohibition, which Lucy de- 
livered in a most peremptory manner, after her lady's ex- 
ample, but the marquis, who had left the young people to 
discourse, and had walked on, that he might not interrupt 
them, turning about and seeing Glanville alone, called him to 
have some private discourse with him. 



Charlotte LeJiriox. 



57 



In this chapter a lover is severely punished for faults which the 
reader never would have discovered if he had not been told. 

The marquis, having studied his nephew's looks several 
days, thought he saw inclination enough in them for Arabella Mr. Glanville in 
to make him receive the knowledge of his intention with joy ; 
he therefore called him into his closet, and told him, in a few 
words, that, if his heart was not preengaged and his daughter 
capable of making him happy, he resolved to bestow her upon 
him, together with all his estates. 

Mr. Glanville received this agreeable news with the strongest 
expressions of gratitude ; assuring his uncle that Lady Bella, 
of all the women he had ever seen, was most agreeable to his 
taste ; and that he felt for her all the tenderness and affection 
his soul was capable of 

"I am glad of it, my dear nephew," said the marquis, em- 
bracing him ; "I will allow you," added he, smiling, "but a 
few weeks to court her ; gain her heart as soon as you can, 
and when you bring me her consent the marriage shall be 
solemni zed immediately. ' ' 

Mr. Glanville needed not a repetition of so agreeable a com- 
mand ; he left his uncle's closet with his heart filled with the 
expectation of his approaching happiness, and, understanding 
Arabella v/as in the garden, he went to her with the resolution 
to acquaint her with the permission her father had given him 
to make his addresses to her. 

He found his fair cousin, as usual, accompanied with her 
women ; and, seeing that notwithstanding his approach they 
still continued to walk with her, and impatient of the restraint 
they laid him under, 

" I beseech you, cousin," said he, "let me have the pleasure 
of walking with you alone : what necessity is there for always 
having so many witnesses of our conversation ? You may 
retire," said he, speaking to Lucy and the other woman ; "I 
have something to say to your lady in private." 

"Stay, I command you," said Arabella, blushing at an inso- 
lence so uncommon, "and take orders from no one but my- 
self I pray you, sir," pursued she frowning, "what inter- 
course of secrets is there between you and me, that you expect 
I should favor you with a private conversation ; an advantage 
which none of your sex ever boasted to have gained from me. 



Interview in the 
garden. 



58 Me7i and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 



Difference of 
opinion. 



and which, haply, you should be the last upon whom I should 
bestow it?" 

"You have the strangest notions," answered Glanville, 
smiling at the pretty anger she discovered; "certainly you 
may hold a private conversation with any gentleman without 
giving offense to decorum : and I may plead a right to this 
happiness above any other, since I have the honor to be your 
relation." 

"It is not at all surprising," resumed Arabella gravely, 
"that you and I should differ in opinion upon this occasion : I 
don't remember that we ever agreed in anything, and I am 
apt to believe we never shall." 

"Ah ! don't say so, Lady Bella," interrupted he. "What a 
prospect of misery you lay before me 1 for, if we are always to 
be opposite to each other, it is necessary that you must hate 
me as much as I admire and love you." 

These words, which he accompanied with a gentle pressure 
of her hand, threw the astonished Arabella into such an excess 
of anger and shame that for a few moments she was unable to 
utter a word. 

What a horrid violation this of all the laws of gallantry and 
respect, which decree a lover to suffer whole years in silence 
before he declares his flame to the divine object that causes it, 
and then with awful tremblings and submissive prostrations at 
the feet of the offended fair ! 

Arabella could hardly believe her senses when she heard a 
declaration not only made without the usual forms, but also, 
that the presumptuous criminal waited for an answer without 
seeming to have any apprehension of the punishment to which 
he was to be doomed ; and that, instead of deprecating her 
wrath, he looked with a smiling wonder upon her eyes, as if he 
did not fear their lightning would strike him dead. 
Extraordinary Indeed, it was scarcely possible for him to help smiling and 
Ar 'b"ll°^ - wondering, too, at the extraordinary action of Arabella ; for as 

soon as he had pronounced those fatal words she started back 
two or three steps, cast a look at him full of the highest indig- 
nation ; and, lifting up her fine eyes to heaven, seemed, in the 
language of romance, to accuse the gods for subjecting her to 
so cruel an indignity. 

The tumult of her thoughts being a little settled, she turned 
again toward Glanville, whose countenance expressed nothing 



Charlotte Lennox. 59 



of that confusion and anxiety common to an adorer in so critical 
a circumstance, her rage returned with greater violence than 
ever. 

" If I do not express all the resentment your welcome has 
filled me with," said she to him, affecting more scorn than 
anger, " 'tis because I hold you too mean for my resentment ; 
but never hope for my pardon for your presumptuous con- 
fession of a passion I could almost despise myself for inspiring. 
If it be true that you love me, go and find your punishment 
in that absence to which I doom you ; and never hope I will 
suffer a person in my presence who has affronted me in the 
manner you have done." 

Saying this she walked away, making a sign to him not to 
follow her. 



Her scorn. 



CHAPTER VII. 



Mr. Glanville's 
departure. 



His letter to 
the marquis. 



Displeasure of 
the marquis. 



Mr. Glanville, after a time, grew angry at the con- 
duct of Arabella, and departed one morning early, 
riding as fast as possible to the next stage, where he 
wrote the following letter to his uncle : 

My Lord : As my leaving your house so abruptly will cer- 
tainly make me appear guilty of a most unpardonable rudeness, 
I cannot dispense with myself from acquainting your lordship 
with the cause ; though, to spare the reproaches Lady Bella 
will probably cast on me for doing so, I could wish you knew it 
by any other means. 

But, my lord, I value your esteem too much to hazard the 
loss of it by suffering you to imagine that I am capable of doing 
anything to displease you. Lady Bella was pleased to order 
me to stay no longer in the house, and menaced me with some 
very terrible usage if I disobeyed her ; she used so many other 
contemptuous expressions to me that, I am persuaded, I shall 
never be so happy as to possess the honor you designed for, 
my lord, your most obedient, etc., 

Charles Glanville. 

When the marquis had read this letter, he went to his daugh- 
ter's apartment with an intention to chide her severely for the 
usage of his nephew ; but seeing her come to meet him with 
her eyes bathed in tears, he insensibly lost some part of his 
resentment. 

" Alas ! my lord," said she, " I know you come prepared to 
load me with reproaches upon my cousin's account ; but I 
beseech your lordship, do not aggravate my sorrows ; though 
I banished Mr. Glanville, I do not desire his death ; and, ques- 
tionless, if he knew how I resent it, his ghost would be satis- 
fied with the sacrifice I make him." 

The marquis, not being able to help smiHng at this conceit, 
which he saw had so strongly impressed her imagination that 
she had no sort of doubt but that her cousin was dead, asked 



Charlotte Lennox. 



6i 



her if she really believed Mr. Glanville loved her well enough 
to die with grief at her ill usage of him. 

" If," said she, "he loves me not well enough to die for me, 
he certainly loves me but little, and I am the less obliged to 
him." 

" But I desire to know," interrupted the marquis, " for what 
crime it was you took the liberty to banish him from my 
house." 

" I banished him, my lord," resumed she, " for his presump- 
tion in telling me he loved me." 

"That presumption, as you call it, though I know not for 
what reason," said the marquis, " was authorized by me ; there- 
fore, know, Bella, that I not only permit him to love you, but I 
also expect you should endeavor to return his affection, and 
look upon him as the man whom I design for your husband ; 
there's his letter," pursued he, putting it into her hand. "I 
blush for the rudeness you have been guilty of, but endeavor to 
repair it by a more obliging behavior for the future ; I am going 
to send after him immediately to prevail upon him to return ; 
therefore write him an apology, I charge you, and have it done 
by the time my messenger is ready to set out." 

Saying this, he went out of the room ; Arabella eagerly 
opened the letter, and finding it in a style so different from 
what she had expected, her dislike of him returned with more 
violence than ever. 

"Ah, the traitor!" said she aloud, "is it thus that he en- 
deavors to move my compassion ? How greatly did I overrate 
his affection when I imagined his despair was capable of killing 
him! Disloyal man!" pursued she, walking about, "is it by 
complaints to my father that thou expectest to succeed? And 
dost thou imagine the heart of Arabella is to be won by 
violence and injustice?" In this manner she wasted the time 
allotted for her to write, and when the marquis sent for her 
letter, having no intention to comply, she went to his chamber, 
conjuring him not to oblige her to a condescension so un- 
worthy of her. 

The marquis, being now excessively angry with her, rose up 
in a fury, and, leading her to his writing desk, ordered her 
instantly to write to her cousin. 

"If I must write, my lord," said she sobbing, "pray be 
so good as to dictate what I must say." 



His commands 
upon Arabella. 



Her agitation. 



62 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 

"Apologize for your rude behavior," said the marquis, "and 
desire him, in the most obHging manner you can, to return." 

Arabella, seeing there was a necessity for obeying, took up 
the pen and wrote the following billet : 

''The unfortunate Arabella to the most ungenerous Glanville. 

" It is not by the power I have over you that I command you 
HerleUerto .%.,.,. . ^u -u 

Glanville. to return, for I disclaim any empire over so unworthy a sub- 

ject; but since it is my father's pleasure I should invite you 

back, I must let you know that I repeal yo-ur banishment, and 

expect you will immediately return with the messenger who 

brings this. However, to spare your acknowledgments, know, 

that it is in obedience to my father's absolute commands that 

you receive this mandate from 

"Arabella." 

Having finished this billet she gave it to the marquis to 
read ; who, finding a great deal of his own haughtiness of 
temper in it, could not resolve to check her for a disposition so 
like his own ; yet he told her her style was very uncommon. 
"And pray," added he smiling, "who taught you to super- 
tion."''^^^*^"^* scribe your letters thus, 'The unfortunate Arabella to the 
most ungenerous Glanville ' ? Why, Bella, this superscription 
is wholly calculated for the bearer's information, but come, 
alter it immediately ; for I do not choose my messenger should 
know that you are unfortunate, or that my nephew is un- 
generous." 

"Pray, my lord," replied Arabella, "content yourself with 
what I have already done in obedience to your commands, and 
suffer my letter to remain as it is ; methinks it is but reason- 
able I should express some little resentment at the complaint 
my cousin has been pleased to make to you against me, nor 
can I possibly make any letter more obliging without being 
guilty of an unpardonable meanness." 

"You are a strange girl," replied the marquis, taking the 
letter and enclosing it in one from himself, in which he 
earnestly entreated his nephew to return, threatening him with 
his displeasure if he disobeyed, and assuring him that his 
daughter would receive him as well as he could possibly 
desire. The messenger being despatched, with orders to ride 
post and overtake the young gentleman, he obeyed his orders 
so well that he came up with him before night. 



Charlotte Lennox. 63 



The marquis was extremely uneasy at the obstinacy of his 
daughter. He desired nothing more ardently than to marry 
her to his nephew, but he could not resolve to force her con- 
sent ; and, however determined he appeared to her, yet, in 
reality, he intended to use persuasions only to effect what he 
desired, and, from the natural sweetness of her temper, he was 
sometimes not without hopes that she might at last be pre- 
vailed upon to comply. 

His nephew's return restored him to part of his usual tran- Rgtm-n of Glan- 
quillity. After he had gently chid him for suffering himself to ville. 
be so far transported with resentment at the little humors of a 
lady as to leave his house without acquainting him, he bade 
him go to Arabella and endeavor to make his peace with her. 

Mr. Glanville accordingly went to her apartment, resolving 
to oblige her to come to some explanation with him concerning 
the offense she complained of; but that fair, incensed lady, who 
had taken shelter in her closet, ordered Lucy to tell him she 
was indisposed and could not see him. 

Glanville, however, comforted himself for this disappoint- 
ment by the hopes of seeing her at supper, and accordingly she 
came when the supper bell rung, and, making a very cool com- 
pliment to her cousin, placed herself at table. The soft 
languor that appeared in her eyes gave such an additional 
charm to one of the loveliest faces in the world, that Glanville, 
who sat opposite to her, could not help gazing on her with 
a very particular attention ; he often spoke to her, and asked 
her trifling questions for the sake of hearing the sound of her 
voice, which sorrow had made enchantingly sweet. 

When supper was over she would have retired, but the mar- 
quis desired her to stay and entertain her cousin while he went 
to look over some despatches he had received from London. 

Arabella blushed with anger at this command ; but not 
daring to disobey, she kept her eyes fixed on the ground, as if pleased, 
she dreaded to hear something that would displease her. 

"Well, cousin," said Glanville, "though you desire to have 
no empire over so unworthy a subject as myself, yet I hope 
you are not displeased at my returning, in obedience to your 
commands." 

"Since I am not allowed any will of my own," said she 
sighing, "it matters not whether I am pleased or displeased ; 
nor is it of any consequence to you to know." 



64 Men and Ma?i7iers of the Eighteenth Century. 



"Indeed but it is, Lady Bella," interrupted he, "for if I 
knew how to please you I would never, if I could help it, 
offend ; therefore, I beg you, tell me how I have disobliged 
you ; for certainly you have treated me as harshly as if I had 
been guilty of some very terrible offense." 

"You had the boldness," said she, "to talk to me of love, 
and you well know that persons of my sex and quality are not 
permitted to listen to such discourses ; and if for that offense I 
banished you my presence, I did no more than decency 
required of me, and which I would yet do were I mistress 
of my own actions." 

"But is it possible, cousin," said Glanville, "that you can be 
angry with any one for loving you ? Is that a crime of as high 
a nature as to merit an eternal banishment from your 
presence? " 

" Without telling you," said Arabella blushing, "whether I 
am angry at being loved, it is sufficient, you know, that I will 
not pardon the man who has the presumption to tell me he 
loves me." 

"But, madam," interrupted Glanville, "if the person who 
tells you he loves you be of a rank not beneath you, I conceive 
you are not at all injured by the favorable sentiments he feels 
for you, and though you are not disposed to make any return 
to his passion, yet you are certainly obliged to him for his good 
opinion." 

"Since love is not voluntary," replied Arabella, "I am not 
obliged to any person for loving me, for, questionless, if he 
could help it he would." 

" If it is not a voluntary favor," interrupted Glanville, " it is 
not a voluntary offense ; and if you do not think yourself 
obliged by one, neither are you at liberty to be offended with 
the other." 

"The question," said Arabella, "is not whether I ought to 
'be offended at being loved, but whether it is not an offense to 
be told I am so." 

"If there is nothing criminal in the passion itself, madam," 
resumed Glanville, "certainly there can be no crime in declar- 
ing it." 

" However specious your arguments may appear," inter- 
rupted Arabella, " I am persuaded it is an unpardonable crime 
to tell a lady you love her ; and though I had nothing else to 



Charlotte Lennox. 



65 



plead, yet the authority of custom is sufficient to prove it." 

" Custom, Lady Bella," said Glanville smiling, " is wholly on 
my side ; for the ladies are so far from being displeased at the 
addresses of their lovers, that their chiefest care is to gain 
them, and their greatest triumph to hear them talk of their 
passion ; so, madam, I hope you will allow that argument has 
no force." 

"I do not know," said Arabella, "what sort of ladies they 
are who allow such unbecoming liberties ; but I am certain 
that Statira, Parisatis, Clelia, and Mandane, and all the illus- 
trious heroines of antiquity, whom it is a glory to resemble, 
never would admit of such discourses." 

"Ah! for heaven's sake, cousin," interrupted Glanville, 
stifling a laugh, "do not suffer yourself to be guided by such 
antiquated maxims ! The world is quite different to what it 
was in those days, and the ladies in this age would as soon 
follow the fashions of the Greek and Roman ladies as mimic 
their manners ; and, I believe, they would become one as well 
as the other." 

"I am sure," replied Arabella, "the world is not more vir- 
tuous now than it was in those days ; and there is good reason 
to believe it not much wiser ; and I do not see why the manners 
of this age are to be preferred to former ones unless they are 
wiser and better ; however, I cannot be persuaded that things 
are as you say ; but that, when I am a little better acquainted 
with the world, I shall find as many people who resemble 
Oroondates, Artaxerxes, and the illustrious lover of Clelia, as 
those who are like Teribases, Artaxes, and the presuming and 
insolent Glanville." 

" By the epithets you give me, madam," said Glanville, "I 
find you have placed me in very bad company ; but pray, 
madam, if the illustrious lover of Clelia had never discovered 
his passion, how would the world have come to the knowledge 
of it?" 

"He did not discover his passion, sir," resumed Arabella, 
"until by the services he did the noble Clelius, and his incom- 
parable daughter, he could plead some title to their esteem. 
He several times preserved the life of that renowned Roman ; 
delivered the beautiful Clelia when she was a captive ; and, in 
fine, conferred so many obligations upon them, and all their 
friends, that he might well expect to be pardoned by the divine 



Authority of 
custom. 



Heroines of 
antiquity. 



Clelia. 



66 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 

Clelia for daring to love her. Nevertheless she used him very 
harshly when he first declared his passion, and banished him 
also from her presence, and it was a long time before she 
could prevail upon herself to compassionate his sufferings." 

The marquis, coming in, interrupted Arabella, upon which 
she took occasion to retire, leaving Glanville more captivated 
with her than ever. 

He found her usage of him was grounded upon examples 
she thought it her duty to follow ; and, strange as her notions 
of life appeared, yet they were supported by so much wit and 
delicacy that he could not help admiring her, while he fore- 
saw the oddity of her humor would throw innumerable difficul- 
ties in his way before he should be able to obtain her. How- 
Glanville ever, as he was really passionately in love with her, he resolved 

passionately to accommodate himself as much as possible to her taste, and 
in love. ^ ' 

endeavor to gam her heart by a behavior most agreeable to 

her ; he therefore assumed an air of great distance and respect, 
never mentioned his affections nor the intentions of her father 
in his favor ; and the marquis, observing his daughter con- 
versed with him with less reluctance than usual, leaving to 
time and the merit of his nephew to dispose her to comply 
with his desires, resolved not to interpose his authority in an 
affair upon which her own happiness so much depended. 

The next chapter, which will try the patience of the 
reader still more than Glanville was tried by the whims 
of his Arabella, is, however, the one which is my excuse 
for introducing the book. The extract from ' ' Cas- 
sandra ' ' is probably the only scrap of that work which 
exists in modern literature, and Arabella is surely the 
only lady accessible to us who can expound the intri- 
cacies of it. 

In this chapter the reader will find a specimen of the true 
pathetic, in the passion of Oroondates, 

Arabella saw the change in her cousin's behavior with a 
great deal of satisfaction, for she did not doubt but his passion 
was as strong as ever, but that he forebore, through respect, 
from entertaining her with any expressions of it ; therefore she 



Charlotte Lennox. 



67 



now conversed with him with the greatest sweetness and com- 
plaisance; she would walk with him for several hours in the 
garden, leaning upon his arm, and charmed him to the last Arabella's wit 
degree of admiration by the agreeable sallies of her wit, and reasoning. 
her fine reasoning upon every subject he proposed. 

It was with the greatest difficulty he restrained himself from 
telling her a thousand times a day that he loved her to excess, 
and conjuring her to give her consent to her father's designs in 
his favor ; but, though he could get over his fears of offending 
her, yet it was impossible to express any sentiments of this 
nature to her without having women witnesses of his discourse; 
for when he walked with her in the garden, Lucy and another 
attendant always followed her ; if he sat with her in her own 
chamber her women were always at one end of it ; and when 
they were both in the marquis's apartments, where her women 
did not follow her, poor Glanville found himself embarrassed 
by his presence ; for, conceiving his nephew had opportunities 
enough of talking to his daughter in private, he always partook 
of their conversation. 

He passed some weeks in this manner, extremely chagrined 
at the little progress he made, and was beginning to be 
heardly weary of the constraint he laid upon himself, when 
Arabella one day furnished him, without designing it, with an 
opportunity of talking to her on the subject he wished for. 

"When I reflect," said she laughing, "upon the difference 
there was between us some days ago and the familiarity in 
which we live at present, I cannot imagine by what means you 
have arrived to a good fortune you had so little reason to 
expect ; for, in fine, you have given me no signs of repentance 
for the fault you committed, which moved me to banish you ; 
and I am not certain whether, in conversing with you in the 
manner I do, I give you not as much reason to find fault with 
my too great easiness, as yovi did me to be displeased with 
your presumption." 

"Since," returned Glanville," I have not persisted in the 
commission of those faults which displeased you, what greater 
signs of repentance can you desire than this reformation in my 
behavior?" 

"But repentance ought to precede reformation," replied 
Arabella, " otherwise there is great room to suspect it is only 
feigned ; and a sincere repentance shows itself in such visible 



Little progress. 



68 Men mid Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 



A long speech 
by Arabella. 



Glanville 
humors her 
bent. 



Oroondates 
and Statira. 



marks that one can hardly be deceived in that which is genuine. 
I have read of many indiscreet lovers who, not succeeding in 
their addresses, have pretended to repent and acted as you do ; 
that is, without giving any signs of contrition for the fault they 
had committed, have eat and slept well, never lost their color, 
or grew one bit thinner by their sorrow, but contented them- 
selves with saying that they repented ; and, without changing 
their disposition to renew their fault, only concealed their 
intention for fear of losing any favorable opportunity of com- 
mitting it again ; but true repentance, as I was saying, not only 
produces reformation, but the person who is possessed- of it 
voluntarily punishes himself for the faults he has been guilty of. 
Thus Mazares, deeply repenting of the crime his passion for 
Mandane had forced him to commit, as a punishment, obliged 
himself to follow the fortune of his glorious rival, obey all his 
commands, and, fighting under his banners, assist him to gain 
the possession of his adored mistress. Such a glorious in- 
stance of his self-denial was, indeed, a sufficient proof of his 
repentance, and infinitely more convincing than the silence he 
imposed upon himself with respect to his passion. Oroon- 
dates, to punish himself for his presumption, in daring to tell 
the admirable Statira that he loved her, resolved to die to 
expiate his crime, and doubtless would have done so if his fair 
mistress, at the entreaty of her brother, had not commanded 
him to live." 

"But pray. Lady Bella," interrupted Glanville, "were not 
these gentlemen happy at last in the possession of their 
mistresses?" 

"Doubtless they were, sir," resumed she; "but it was not 
till after numberless misfortunes, infinite services, and many 
dangerous adventures, in which their fidelity was put to the 
strongest trials imaginable." 

" I am glad, however," said Glanville, "that the ladies were 
not insensible ; for, since you do not disapprove of their com- 
passion for their lovers, it is to be hoped you will not be always 
as inexorable as you are now." 

"When I shall be so fortunate," interrupted she, "as to 
meet with a lover who shall have as pure and perfect a passion 
for me as Oroondates had for Statira, and give me as many 
glorious proofs of his constancy and affection, doubtless I shall 
not be ungrateful ; but, since I have not the merits of Statira, I 



Charlotte Lennox. 



69 



ought not to pretend to her good fortune, and shall be very 
well contented if I escape the persecutions which persons of my 
sex who are not frightfully ugly are always exposed to, without 
hoping to inspire such a passion as that of Oroondates." 

" I should be glad to be better acquainted with the actions of 
this happy lover, madam," said Glanville, "that, forming 
myself upon his exam.ple, I may hope to please a lady as 
worthy of my regards as Statira was of his." 

"For heaven's sake, cousin," replied Arabella laughing, 
"how have you spent your time, and to what studies have you 
devoted your hours, that you could find none to spare for the pe- 
rusal of books from which all useful knowledge may be drawn ; 
which give us the most shining examples of generosity, courage, 
virtue, and love ; which regulate our actions, form our manners, 
and inspire us with a noble desire of emulating those great, 
heroic, and virtuous actions which made those persons so 
glorious in their age and so worthy imitation in ours ? How- 
ever, as it is never too late to improve, suffer me to recom- 
mend to you the reading of these books, which will soon make 
you discover the improprieties you have been guilty of, and 
will, probably, induce you to avoid them for the future." 

"I shall certainly read them, if you desire it," said Glan- 
ville; "and I have so great an inclination to be agreeable to ^onsmtl^o 
you that I shall embrace every opportunity of becoming so ; read extracts, 
and will therefore take my instructions from these books, if 
you think proper, or from yourself; which, indeed, will be the 
quickest way of teaching me." 

Arabella, having ordered one of her women to bring " Cleo- 
patra," "Cassandra," "Clelia," and "The Grand Cyrus" from 
her library, Glanville no sooner saw the girl return, sinking 
under the weight of those voluminous romances, than he began 
to tremble at the apprehension of his cousin laying her com- 
mands upon him to read them ; and repented of his complai- 
sance, which exposed him to the cruel necessity of performing 
what to him appeared an Herculean labor, or else incurring 
her anger by his refusal. 

Arabella, making her women place the books upon a table 
hefore her, opened them, one after another, with eyes spark- 
ling with delight, while Glanville sat wrapt with admiration 
at the sight of so many huge folios written, as he conceived, 
upon the most trifling subjects imaginable. 



A mass of 
romance. 



70 ]\'Icn and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 



Soliloquy of 
Oroondates. 



Statira's 
generosity. 



" I have chosen out these few," said Arabella (not observing- 
his consternation), "from a great many others which compose 
the most valuable part of my library; and by the time you have 
gone through these I imagine you will be considerably im- 
proved." 

," Certainly, madam," replied Glanville, turning the leaves in 
great confusion, "one may, as you say, be greatly improved ; 
for these books contain a great deal," and looking over a page 
of " Cassandra " without any design, he read these words, 
which were part of Oroondates's soliloquy* when he received 
a cruel sentence from Statira : 

"Ah, cruel ! (says this miserable lover), and what have I 
done to merit it ? Examine the nature of my offense, and you 
will see I am not so guilty but that my death may free me from 
part of that severity. Shall your hatred last longer than my 
life ? and can you detest a soul that forsakes its body only to^ 
obey you ? No, no, you are not so hard-hearted ; that satisfac- 
tion will doubtless content you, and when I shall cease to be, 
doubtless I shall cease to be odious to you." 

"Upon my soul," said Glanville, stifling a laugh with great 
difficulty, " I cannot help blaming the lady this sorrowful lover 
complains of, for her great cruelty ; for here he gives one 
reason to suspect that she will not even be content with his 
dying in obedience to her comniands, but will hate him after 
death, an impiety quite inexcusable in a Christian ! " 

" You condemn this illustrious princess with very little 
reason," replied Arabella, smiling at his mistake ; "for besides 
that she was not a Christian, and ignorant of those divine max- 
ims of charity and forgiveness which Christians, by their pro- 
fession, are obliged to practice, she was very far from desiring 
the death of Oroondates ; for, if you will take the pains to read 
the succeeding passages, you will find that she expresses her- 
self in the most obliging manner in the world ; for when Oroon- 
■ dates tells her he would live if she would consent he should, 
the princess most sweetly replies : ' I not only consent, but 
also entreat it ! and, if I have any power, command it.' How- 
ever, lest you should fall into the other extreme, and blame this 
great princess for her easiness (as you before condemned her 
for her cruelty) it is necessary that you should know how she 
was induced to this favorable behavior to her lover ; therefore, 
read the whole transaction. Staj;^ ! here it begins," continued 



Charlotte Lennox. 



71 



she, turning over a good many pages and marking where he 
should begin to read. 

Glanville, having no great stomach to the task, endeavored 
to evade it, by entreating his cousin to relate the passages she 
desired he should be acquainted with ; but she declining it, 
he was obliged to obej', and began to read where she directed 
Tiim, and, to leave him at liberty to read with greater attention, 
she left him, and went to a window at the other end of the 
chamber. 

Mr. Glanville, who was not willing to displease her, ex- 
amined the task she had set him, resolving, if it was not a Glanville's 
very hard one, to comply ; but, counting the pages, he was ^^"^ ^' 
quite terrified at their number, and therefore, glancing over 
them, he pretended to be deeply engaged in reading, when, in 
reality, he was contemplating the surprising effect these books 
had produced in the mind of his cousin, who, had she been 
untainted by the ridiculous whims they created in her imagina- 
tion, was, in his opinion, one of the most accomplished ladies 
in the world. 

When he had sat long enough to make her believe he had 
read all that she desired, he rose up, and, joining her at the 
window, began to talk of the pleasantness of the evening 
instead of the rigor of Statira. 

Arabella colored with vexation at his extreme indifference in 
a matter which was of such prodigious consequence in her 
opinion. Glanville, by her silence and frowns, was made 
sensible of his fault ; and, to repair it, began to talk of the 
inexorable Statira, though, indeed, he did not well know what 
to say. Arabella, clearing up a little, did not disdain to answer 
him upon her favorite topic : 

"I knew," said she, "you would be ready to blame this 
princess equally for her rigor and her kindness : but it must be 
remembered that what she did in favor of Oroondates was 
wholly owing to the generosity of Artaxerxes." 

Here she stopped, expecting Glanville to give his opinion, 
who, strangely puzzled, replied at random, "To be sure, 
madam, he was a very generous rival." 

" Rival ! " cried Arabella ; " Artaxerxes the rival of Oroon- 
dates ! Why, certainly you have lost your wits ; he was 
Statira' s brother ; and it was to his mediation that Oroon- 
dates, or Orontes, owed his happiness." 



His subter- 
fuges. 



72 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 



His deception 
discovered. 



Arabella 
inexorable. 



Amusement of 
the marquis. 



"Certainly, madam," replied Glanville, "it was very gen- 
erous in Artaxerxes, as he was brother to Statira, to interpose 
in behalf of an unfortunate lover ; and both Oroondates and 
Orontes were extremely obliged to him." 

"Orontes," replied Arabella, "was more obliged to him 
than Oroondates ; since the quality of Orontes was infinitely 
below that of Oroondates." 

"But, madam," interrupted Glanville (extremely pleased at 
his having so well got over the difficulty he had been in), 
"which of these two lovers did Statira make happy? " This 
unlucky question immediately informed Arabella that she had 
been all this time the dupe of her cousin, who, if he had read 
a single page, would have known that Orontes and Oroondates 
were the same person ; the name of Orontes being assumed by 
Oroondates to conceal his real name and quality. 

The shame and rage she conceived at so glaring a proof of 
his disrespect and the ridicule to which she had exposed her- 
self were so great that she could not find words severe enough 
to express her resentment, but ordered him instantly to 
quit her chamber, and assured him, if he ever attempted to 
approach her again, she would submit to the most terrible 
effects of her father's resentment rather than be obliged to see 
a person who had, by his unworthy behavior, made himself her 
scorn and aversion. 

Glanville attempted, with great submission, to move her to 
recall her cruel sentence ; but Arabella, bursting into tears, 
complained so pathetically of the cruelty of her destiny ia 
exposing her to the importunities of a man she despised, that 
Glanville, thinking it best to let her rage evaporate a little 
before he attempted to pacify her, quitted her chamber, cursing 
Statira and Orontes a thousand times, and loading the authors 
of those books with all the imprecations his rage could suggest. 

Glanville went into the garden to cool off, and here 
meeting the marquis, he told him the whole thing ; in 
the course of his recital he could not help laughing, and 
the marquis was so diverted that he ' ' would needs hear 
it all over again." He shared the annoyance of his 
nephew, but reproved him for not reading what was set 
before him, for, says he, "besides losing an opportunitjr 



Charlotte Lennox. 73 



of obliging her, you drew yovirself into a terrible di- 
lemma. ' ' Glanville admitted his error, but begged his 
uncle to restore him to the favor of his cousin. Re- 
pairing to his daughter, the marquis tried to reason 
amiably with her, but her jargon about ' ' Candace, the 
beautiful daughter of Cleopatra" so enraged him that 
he ordered one of her women to carry all her beloved 
books into his apartment, vowing he would commit 
them to the flames. 

This is a parallel to the burning of the books in 

,,T-v 1-^ • 11 1'f -1 1 CA Burning of the 

Don y uixote, and m fact is the only part of Ara- books. 
bella's history which runs at all close to the work of 
Cervantes, which supplies its name. There were various 
imitations of the great original, of which this is per- 
haps the best. 

We must now leave our heroine to her career. Mr. 
Glanville won the heart of his fair one by interceding 
for her favorite books. The marquis relented, and the 
young man, seizing them for fear his uncle should change 
his mind, hastened to carry them to his cousin, who, 
with eyes sparkling at the sight of her favorites, gen- 
erously pardoned her lover. 

Of course she married him, at the end of two not 
very long volumes, wholly cured, after a series of mar- 
velous adventures, of all her follies ; although on her first 
appearance in the great world, ill prepared for the real 
dangers of society by her false notions of propriety 
acquired in her early studies, she made continual mis- 
takes. There is really a sweetness and ingenuousness 
about Arabella, which, besides protecting her from the 
pitfalls awaiting her, wins, in my opinion, the affection 
of her readers, or, at the least, prevents them from lay- Happy conclu- 
ing down her story with the condemnation of absolute 
dulness. 



Marriage.' 



sion. 



74 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
You may meet the Lady Arabella again at Bath. 



BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

British Novelists (Lecture I.). David Masson, M.A. 
British Novelists, Vols. 32-33 : Female Quixote (Mrs. Bar- 
bauld's edition). 



BOOK III. 
ADDISON AND GAY. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

We commonly regard the age of the Revolution 
as an age of military exploits and political changes, 
an age whose warlike glories loom dimly through the 
smoke of Blenheim or of Ramillies, and the greatness of 
whose political issues still impresses us, though we track 
them with difficulty through a chaos of treasons and 
cabals. But to the men who lived in it the age was chan,o:es of the 
far more than this. To them the Revolution was more 
than a merely political revolution; it was the recognition 
not only of a change in the relations of the nation to its 
rulers, but of changes almost as great in English society 
and in English intelligence. If it was the age of the Bill 
of Rights, it was the age also of the Spectator. If Marl- 
borough and Somers had their share in shaping the new 
England that came of 1688, so also had Addison and 
Steele. And to the bulk of people it may be doubted 
whether the change that passed over literature was not 
more startling and more interesting than the change 
that passed over politics. Few changes, indeed, have 
ever been so radical and complete. Literature suddenly 
doffed its stately garb of folio or octavo, and stepped 
abroad in the light and easy dress of pamphlet and 
essay. We hear sometimes that the last century is 
"repulsive"; but what is it that repels us in it? Is it 
the age itself, or the picture of itself which the age so 

75 



76 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 

fearlessly presents? There is no historic ground for 
thinking the eighteenth century a coarser or a more 
brutal age than the centuries that had gone before ; 
rather there is ground for thinking it a less coarse and a 
less brutal age. The features which repel us in it are no 
features of its own production. What makes the 

Improvement Georgian age seem repulsive is simply that it is the 

m the Georgian ^^.^^ ^^^ which felt these cvils to be evils, which dragged 
them, in its effort to amend them, into the light of day. 
It is, in fact, the moral effort of the time which makes 
it seem so immoral. 

Steele has the merit of having been the first to feel 
the new intellectual cravings of his day and to furnish 
what proved to be the means of meeting them. His 

ra«Lr!" '^^ Tatler was a periodical of pamphlet form, in which news 
was to be varied by short essays of criticism and gossip. 
But his grasp of the new literature was a feeble grasp. 
His sense of the fitting form for it, of its fitting tone, of 
the range and choice of its subjects, were alike in- 
adequate. He seized indeed by a happy instinct on 
letter-writing and conversation as the two molds to 
which the essay must adapt itself ; he seized with the 
same happy instinct on humor as the pervading temper 
of his work and on "manners" as its destined sphere. 
But his notion of "manners" was limited not only to 
the external aspects of life and society, but to those 
aspects as they present themselves in towns ; while his 

. - humor remained pert and superficial. The Tatler, how- 

ever, had hardly been started when it was taken in hand 
by a greater than Steele. ' ' It was raised, " as he frankly 
confessed, " to a greatef thing than I intended, ' ' by the 
cooperation of Joseph Addison. 

The life of the Za//(?r lasted through the years 1709 
and 1710 ; the two next years saw it surpassed by the 



Addison mid Gay. 77 

essays of the Spectator, and this was followed in 1 7 1 3 by 

the Guardian, in 17 14 by a fresh series of Spectators, in '^^^I'^Jff^ 

1 7 1 5 by the Freeholder. In all these successive periodi- Freeholder. 

cals what was really vital and important was the work of 

Addison. Addison grasped the idea of popularizing 

knowledge as frankly as Steele. He addressed as 

directly the new world of the home. _,,.—- '""'"' 

It was said of Socrates [he tells us] that he brouj^^'phi- 
losophy down from heaven to inhabit among men ;-'tfnd I shall 
be ambitious to have it said of me that I have brought philos- 
ophy out of closets and libraries, schools and colleges, to dwell 
in clubs and assemblies, at tea-tables and in coffee-houses. I 
would therefore [he ends with^smile] recommend these my 
speculations to all well-regulated assemblies that set apart one 
hour in every morning for tea and bread and butter, and would 
heartily advise them for their good to order this paper to be 
punctually served up, and to be looked upon as part of the 
tea-equipage. 

But in Addison's hands this popular writing became a 
part of literature. While it preserved the free move- spectator in 

^ ... Addison s , 

ment of the letter-writer, the gaiety and briskness of hand, 
chat, it obeyed the laws of literary art, and was shaped 
and guided by a sense of literary beauty. Its humor, 
too, became a subtler and more exquisite thing. Instead 
of the mere wit of the coffee-house, men found them- 
selves smiling with a humorist who came nearer than 
any man before or since to the humor of Shakespeare. 
Joseph Addison was born in 1672, the son of Lancelot 
Addison, rector of Lichfield, educated at Charterhouse 

. , , Incidents in 

and Magdalen College, Oxford : he was dissuaded from the life of 

• -1 1 1 ^1 1 Addison. 

his design of entering the church by Charles Montagu, 
afterward Earl of Halifax, who procured him a pension 
from King William and sent him to travel in France and 
Italy. Returning to England (at the age of thirty-two) 
he gained some reputation by a poem commemorating 



7 8 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Centitry. 



the victory of Blenheim, and was made in 1705 secre- 
tary of state, holding afterward various political offices, 
from which he drew a large income, while they left him 
leisure for writing. He died in 17 19, leaving one 
. daughter by the Countess Dowager of Warwick, whom 
he had married three years before, and who added little 
to his comfort while he was alive. This daughter, by the 
way, inherited the picture of Mr. Wortley before men- 
tioned, and through her half-sister it returned to the 
family of Lady Mary Wortley. 

Addison was a fair man, of indolent habits and a 
Personal traits, languid vitality. He had naturally a fine memory for 
words, and was in his quiet way an accurate observer of 
what passed before him. His chief intellectual exercise 
was the study of "putting things" — whether things that 
he had seen and heard, reflections that he had made 
upon them, or thoughts that he had met with in the 
course of his reading; "a fine gentleman living upon 
town, not professing any deep scholastic knowledge of 
literature, ' ' and employing . his leisure in writing elegant 
periodical articles. 

Although engaged in politics, he had no natural gifts 
for active life. He could not have made his own 
position ; the accident of the times rendered literary 
service valuable, and he was virtually the literary 
retainer of the leaders of the Whig party. 

Of the course of Addison's familiar day, before his 
marriage, Johnson says : 

He had in the house with him Budgell, and perhaps Phillips. 
With one or other of his chief companions he always break- 
Daily habits. fasted. He studied all morning ; then dined at a tavern ; and 
went afterward to Button's, where he would remain five or six 
hours. Button had been a servant in the Countess of War- 
wick's family, who, under the patronage of Addison, kept a 
coffee-house on the south side of Russell Street, about two 



Addison and Gay. yg 

doors from Covent Garden. Here it was that the wits of the 
time used to assemble. It is said v/hen Addison had suffered 
any vexation from the countess he withdrew the company 
from Button's house. From the coffee-house he went again to 
a tavern, where he often sate late and drank too much wine. 

Party politics had no place in his Spectator. Addi- 
son's professed object was to banish vice and ignorance 
out of the territories of Great Britain. 

The minor immoralities that he attacked were such as 
affectation, presumption, foppery, fashionable extrava- hu^man"'^ 
gance, upstart vulgarity. As vices of the same class he ^>'™P^''^y- 
continued to satirize the rustic manners of the Tory 
squires "who had never seen anything greater than 
themselves for twenty years." 

' ' The greatest wits I have conversed with, ' ' he says 
himself, "were men eminent for their humanity," and it 
is in his interest and sympathy for man's infinite capaci- 
ties that the charm lies of his essays. It is this which 
gives them the detail of manners we require for our 
subject. 

In his general account of the Spectator Club, Addison 
gives us a vignette of Sir Roger, which may serve as 
preface to his papers. 

The first of our society is a gentleman of Worcestershire, of 
ancient descent, a baronet, his name Sir Roger de Coverley. sir Roger 
His great-grandfather was inventor of that famous country- de Coverley. 
dance which is called after him. All who know that shire are 
very well acquainted with the parts and merits of Sir Roger. 
He is a gentleman that is very singular in his behavior, but his 
singularities proceed from his good sense, and are contradic- 
tions to the manners of the world only as he thinks the world 
is in the wrong. However, this humor creates him no enemies, 
for he does nothing with sourness or obstinacy ; and his being 
unconfined to modes and forms makes him but the readier and 
more capable to please and oblige all who know him. When 
he is in town he lives in Soho Square. It is said he keeps 



IStlCS. 



80 Men a7id Manners of the Eighteenth Centicry. 

himself a bachelor, by reason he was crossed in love by a per- 
verse beautiful widow of the next county to him. Before this 
disappointment Sir Roger was what you call a fine gentleman, 
had often supped with my Lord Rochester and Sir George 
Etherege, fought a duel upon his first coming to town, and 
Jcicked Bully Dawson in a public coffee-house, for calling him 
youngster. But, being ill used by the above-mentioned widow, 
he was very serious for a year and a half; and though, his tem- 
per being naturally jovial, he at last got over it, he grew 
His character- careless of himself and never dressed afterward. He continues 
to wear a coat and doublet of the same cut that were in 
fashion at the time of his repulse, which, in his merry humors, 
he tells us, has been in and out twelve times since he first wore 
it. He is now in his fifty-sixth year, cheerful, gay, and hearty ; 
keeps a good house both in town and country ; a great lover of 
mankind ; but there is such a mirthful cast in his behavior that 
he is rather beloved than esteemed. His tenants grow rich, 
his servants look satisfied, all the young women profess to love 
him, and the young men are glad of his company ; when he 
comes into a house, he calls the servants by their names, and 
talks all the way up-stairs to a visit. I must not omit that Sir 
Roger is a justice of the quorum ; that he fills the chair at a 
quarter session with great abilities, and three months ago 
gained universal applause by explaining a passage in the 
game-act. 



Having often received an invitation from my friend Sir 
A month in the Roger de Coverley to pass away a month with him in the 
Sir Roger. country, I last week accompanied him thither, and am settled 

with him for some time at his country-house, where I intend to 
form several of my ensuing speculations. Sir Roger, who is 
very well acquainted with my humor, lets me rise and go»to 
bed when I please ; dine at his own table or in my chamber, as 
I think fit ; sit still and saying nothing, without bidding me be 
merry. When the gentlemen of the country come to see him, 
he only shows me at a distance. As I have been walking in 
his fields, I have observed them stealing a sight of me over an 
hedge, and have heard the knight desiring them not to let 
me see them, for that I hated to be stared at. 

I am the more at ease in Sir Roger's family because it con- 



Addison and Gay. 



sists of sober and staid persons ; for as the knight is the best 
master in the world, he seldom changes his servants ; and as 
he is beloved by all about him, his servants never care for leav- 
ing him : by this means his domestics are all in years, and 
grown old with their master. You would take his valet de 
chanibre for his brother ; his butler is gray-headed ; his groom 
is one of the gravest men that I have ever seen ; and his coach- 
man has the looks of a privy-councillor. You see the goodness 
of the master even in the house-dog, and in a gray pad that is 
kept in the stable with great care though he has been useless 
for years. 

My chief companion at Sir Roger's is a venerable man who ^^^ chaplain 
has lived in his house in the nature of a chaplain about thirty 
years. He heartily loves Sir Roger, and knows that he is very 
much in the old knight's esteem ; so that he lives in the family 
rather as a relation than a dependent. 

' I have observed in several of my papers that my friend Sir 
Roger, amidst all his good qualities, is something of an humor- 
ist ; and that his virtues, as well as imperfections, are, as it 
were, tinged by a certain extravagance, which makes them 
particularly his, and distinguishes them from those of other 
men. This cast of mind, as it is generally very innocent in 
itself, so it renders his conversation highly agreeable, and more 
delightful than the same degree of sense and virtue would 
appear in their common and ordinary colors. As I was walk- 
ing with him last night, he asked me how I liked the good man 
whom I have just now mentioned ; and, without staying for 
my answer, told me that he was afraid of being insulted with 
Latin and Greek at his own table ; for which reason he desired 
a particular friend of his at the university to find him out a 
clergyman rather of plain sense than much learning, of a good A man of plain 

• sense 

aspect, a clear voice, a sociable temper, and, if possible, a man 
that understood a little of backgammon. "My friend (says 
Sir Roger) found me out this gentleman, who, besides the 
endowments required of him, is, they tell me, a good scholar, 
though he does not show it. I have given him the parsonage 
of the parish ; and because I know his value, have settled upon 
him a good annuity for life. If he outlives me, he shall find 
that he was higher in my esteem than perhaps he thinks 
he is." 

I cannot forbear relating a very odd accident, because it 



82 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Centtiry. 

shows how desirous all who know Sir Roger are of giving him. 
Incident of the marks of their esteem. When we were arrived upon the verge 
Saracen's Head. ^|- j^jg estate, we stopped at a little inn to rest ourselves and 
our horses. The man of the house had, it seems, been 
formerly a servant in the knight's family ; and to do honor to 
his old master, had some time since, unknown to Sir Roger, 
put him up in a sign-post before the door; so that The Knight's 
Head had hung out upon the road about a week before he 
himself knew anything of the matter. As soon as Sir Roger 
was acquainted with it, finding that his servant's indiscretion 
proceeded wholly from affection and good-will, he only told 
him that he had made him too high a compliment ; and when, 
the fellow seemed to think that could hardly be, added, with a 
more decisive look, that it was too great an honor for any man 
under a duke ; but told him, at the same time, that it might be 
altered with a very few touches, and that he himself would be 
at the charge of it. Accordingly they got a painter by the 
knight's directions to add a pair of whiskers to the face, and by 
a little aggravation of the features to change it into the Sara- 
cen's Head. I should not have known this story had not the 
inn-keeper, upon Sir Roger's alighting, told him in my hearing 
that his honor's head was brought back last night, with the 
alterations that he had ordered to be made in it. Upon this 
my friend, with his usual cheerfulness, related the particulars 
above mentioned, and ordered the head to be brought into the 
room. I could not forbear discovering greater expressions of 
mirth than ordinary upon the appearance of this monstrous 
face, under which, notwithstanding it was made to frown and 
stare in the most extraordinary manner, I could still discover a 
distant resemblance of my old friend. Sir Roger, upon seeing 
me laugh, desired me to tell him truly if I thought it possible 
to know him in that disguise. I at first kept my usual silence ; 
but upon the knight's conjuring me to tell him whether it was 
not still more like himself than a Saracen, I composed my 
countenance in the best manner I could and replied, "that 
much might be said on both sides." 



I was this morning surprised with a great knocking at the 

Sir Roger in door, when my landlady's daughter came up to me and told me 

ondon. there was a man below desired to speak with me. Upon 



Addison and Gay. 83 

my asking her who it was, she told me it was a very grave 
elderly person, but that she did not know his name. I im- 
mediately went down to him, and found him to be the coach- 
man of my worthy friend Sir Roger de Coverley. He told me 
that his master came to town last night, and would be glad to 
take a turn with me in Grays-Inn walks. As I was wondering 
in myself what had brought Sir Roger to town, not having 
lately received any letter from him, he told me that his master 
was come up to get a sight of Prince Eugene, and that he 
desired I would immediately meet him. 

I was not a little pleased with the curiosity of the old knight, 
though I did not much wonder at it, having heard him say 
more than once in private discourse that he looked upon 
Prince Eugenio (for so the knight always calls him) to be 
a greater man than Scanderbeg. 

I was no sooner come into Grays-Inn walks but I heard my 
friend upon the terrace hemming twice or thrice to himself ^alks^^^" "" 
with great vigor, for he loves to clear his pipes in good air (to 
make use of his own phrase), and is not a little pleased with 
any one who takes notice of the strength which he still exerts 
in his morning hems. 

I was touched with a secret joy at the sight of the good old 
man, who before he saw me was engaged in conversation with 
a beggar-man that had asked an alms of him. I could hear my 
friend chide him for not finding out some work ; but at the 
same time saw him put his hand in his pocket and give him 
sixpence. 

Our salutations were very hearty on both sides, consisting of 

many kind shakes of the hand and several affectionate looks 

which we cast upon one another. . . . Among other pieces 

of news which the knight brought from his county seat, he 

informed me that he had killed eight fat hogs for this Christ- „. „. . , 

1 1 • 1 ■ 1-1 "-'^ Christmas 

mas season, that he had dealt about his chmes very liberally generosity. 

amongst his neighbors, and that in particular he had sent a string 

of hog's puddings with a pack of cards to every poor family in 

the parish. "I have often thought," says Sir Roger, "it 

happens very well that Christmas should fall out in the middle 

of the winter. It is the most dead, uncomfortable time of the 

year, when the poor people would suffer very much from their 

poverty and cold if they had not good cheer, warm fires, and 

Christmas gambols to support them. I love to rejoice their 



Prince Eugene. 



84 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Centuiy. 

poor hearts at this season, and to see the whole village merry 
in my great hall. I allow a double quantity of malt to my 
small beer, and set it a running for twelve daj^s to every one 
that calls for it. I have always a piece of cold beef and a 
mince-pie upon the table, and am wonderfully pleased to see 
my tenants pass away a whole evening in playing their in- 
nocent tricks." 

The knight then asked me if I had seen Prince Eugene ; and 
made me promise to get him a stand in some convenient place 
where he might have a full sight of that extraordinary man, 
whose presence does so much honor to the British nation. He 
dwelt very long on the praises of this great general, and I 
found that since I was with him in the country he had drawn 
many observations together out of his reading in Baker's 
Chronicle, and other authors, who always lie in his hall 
window, which very much redound to the honor of this prince. 

He asked me if I would smoke a pipe with him over a dish 
of coffee at Squire's. As I love the old man, I take a delight 
in complying with everything that is agreeable to him, and 
accordingly waited on him to the coffee-house, where his 
venerable figure drew upon us the eyes of the whole room. 
He had no sooner seated himself at the upper end of the 
high table but he called for a clean pipe, a paper of tobacco, 
a dish of coffee, a wax candle, and the Supplement, with such 
At the coffee- ^j^ ^jj. Qf cheerfulness and good humor that all the boys in 
the coffee-room (who seemed to take pleasure in serving 
him) were at once employed on his several errands, insomuch 
that nobody else could come at a dish of tea till the knight had 
got all his conveniences about him. 



room. 



As I was sitting in my chamber, and thinking on a subject 
for my next Spectator, I heard two or three irregular bounces 
at my landlady's door, and upon the opening of it, a loud 
cheerful voice inquiring whether the philosopher was at home. 
The child who went to the door answered very innocently that 
he did not lodge there. I immediately recollected that it was 
my good friend Sir Roger's voice ; and that I had promised to 
Spring Garden, go with him on the water to Spring Garden, in case it proved a 



Addison and Gay. 85 

good evening. The knight put me in mind of my promise 
from the staircase, but told me that if I was speculating, he 
would stay below till I had done. Upon my coming down, 
I found all the children of the family got about my old friend, 
and my landlady herself, who is a notable prating gossip, 
engaged in a conference with him ; being mightily pleased with 
his stroking her little boy upon the head and bidding him be a 
good child, and mind his book. 

We were no sooner come to the Temple-stairs but we were 
surrounded with a crowd of watermen, offering their respective 
services. Sir Roger, after having looked about him very The waterman 
attentively, spied one with a wooden leg, and immediately wooden leg. 
gave him orders to get his boat ready. As we were walking 
toward it, "You must know (says Sir Roger), I never make 
use of anybody to row me that has not either lost a leg or 
an arm. I would rather bate him a few strokes of his oar than 
riot employ an honest man that has been wounded in the 
queen s service. 

Vauxhall Gardens were long a place of popular resort. 
They were laid out in 1661, and were at first known as 
the New Spring Gardens at Fox Hall, to distinguish 
them from the Old Spring Gardens at Whitehall. The 
gardens having sunk in character were finally closed in 
1859 ^^^ the site is now built over. 

We were now arrived at Spring Garden, which is exquisitely 
pleasant at this time of year. When I considered the fragrancy 
of the walks and bowers, with the choirs of birds that sung 
upon the trees, and the loose tribe of people that walked under 
their shades, I could not but look upon the place as a kind 
of Mahometan paradise. Sir Roger told me it put him in mind 
of a little coppice by his house in the country, which his chap- 
lain used to call an aviary of nightingales. 



We concluded our walk with a glass of Burton ale and a 
slice of hung-beef. When we had done eating ourselves, the 
knight called a waiter to him, and bid him carry the remainder 
to a waterman that had but one leg. I perceived the fellow 
stared upon him at the oddness of the message, and was going 



86 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 

to be saucy ; upon which I ratified the knight's commands with 
a peremptory look, and we left the garden. 

When Addison and the others were tired of writing 
RogS°'^^''^ about him, the pubhc received the ill news that Sir 
Roger de Coverley was dead. The Spectator says : 

I have a letter from the butler who took so much care of me 
last summer when I was at the knight's house. I shall give my 
reader a copy of his letter, without any alteration or diminu- 
tion. 

" Honored Sir : Knowing that you was my old master's 
good friend, I could not forbear sending you the melancholy 
news of his death, which has afflicted the whole country, as 
well as his poor servants, who loved him, I may say, better than 
butkr upon it.^ we did our lives. I am afraid he caught his death the last 
country sessions, where he would go to see justice done to a 
poor widow woman and her fatherless children, that had been 
wronged by a neighboring gentleman ; for you know, my good 
master was always the poor man's friend. Upon his coming 
home, the first complaint he made was that he had lost his 
roast-beef stomach, not being able to touch a sirloin, which 
was served up according to custom ; and you know he used to 
take great delight in it. From that time forward he grew 
worse and worse, but still kept a good heart to the last. In- 
deed we were once in great hopes of his recovery, upon a kind 
message that was sent him from the widow lady whom he had 
made love to the forty last years of his life ; but this only 
proved a lightning before his death. He has bequeathed to 
this lady, as a token of his love, a great pearl necklace and a 
couple of silver bracelets set with jewels, which belonged to my 
good old lady his mother ; he has bequeathed the fine white 
gelding, that he used to ride a hunting upon, to his chaplain, 
because he thought he would be kind to him, and has left you 
all his books. He has, moreover, bequeathed to the chaplain 
a very pretty tenement with good lands about it. It being a 
very cold day when he made his will, he left for mourning, to 
every man in the parish a great frieze coat, and to every 
woman a black riding-hood. It was a most moving sight to see 
him take leave of his poor servants, commending us all for our 
fidelity, whilst we were not able to speak a word for weeping. 



Addison arid Gay. 



87 



He was buried, according to his own directions, among the 

family of the Coverlies, on the left hand of his father. Sir His burial. 

Arthur. The coffin was carried by six of his tenants, and the 

pall held up by six of the quorum ; the whole parish followed 

the corpse with heavy hearts, and in their mourning suits ; the 

men in frieze and the women in riding-hoods. It was the 

melancholiest day for the poor people that ever happened 

in Worcestershire. This being all from, 

" Honored sir, your most sorrowful servant, 

"Edward Biscuit." 
This letter, notwithstanding the poor butler's manner of 
writing it, gave us such an idea of our good old friend that 
upon the reading of it there was not a dry eye in the club. 

Here end my selections from Sir Roger. What fol- other 
lows are other papers h'om the Spectator^ ascribed to papers. 



Addison. 



Party Patches. 



About the middle of last winter I went to see an opera at the 
theater in the Haymarket, where I could not but take notice of 
two parties of very fine women, that had placed themselves in 
the opposite side boxes, and seemed drawn up in a kind of 
battle-array one against another. After a short survey of them, 
I found that they were patched differently ; the faces on one 
hand being spotted on the right side of the forehead, and those 
upon the other on the left : I quickly perceived that they cast 
hostile glances upon one another ; and that their patches were 
placed in those different situations as party signals to distin- 
guish friends from foes. In the middle boxes, between those 
two opposite bodies, were several ladies who patched indiffer- 
ently on both sides of their faces, and seemed to sit there with 
no other intention but to see the opera. Upon inquiry I found 
that the body of Amazons on my right hand were Whigs and 
those on my left Tories ; and that those who had placed them- 
selves in the middle boxes were a neutral party, whose faces 
had not yet declared themselves. These last, however, as I after- 
ward found, diminished daily, and took their party with one side 
or the other ; insomuch that I observed in several of them, the 
patches, which were before dispersed equally, are now all gone 
over to the Whig or the Tory side of the face. 



Party patches. 



matrons. 



88 Men and ]\fayiners of the Eighteenth Century. 

When I was in the theater the time above mentioned I had 
Tory and Whig, the curiosity to count the patches on both sides, and found the 
Tory patclies to be about twenty stronger than the Whig ; but 
to make amends for this small inequality, I the next morning 
found the whole puppet-show filled with faces spotted after the 
Whiggish manner. Whether or no the ladies had retreated 
hither in order to rally their forces, I cannot tell ; but the next 
night they came in so great a body to the opera, that they out- 
numbered the enemy. 

This account of party patches will, I ' am afraid, appear 
improbable to those who live at a distance from the fashionable 
world ; but as it is a distinction of a very singular nature, and 
what perhaps may never meet with a parallel, I think I should 
not have discharged the office of a faithful Spectator had I not 
recorded it. 

When the Romans were pressed with a foreign enemy the 
Roman ladies voluntarily contributed all their rings and jewels to assist 

the government under the public exigence, which appeared 
so laudable an action in the eyes of their countrymen, that from 
thenceforth it was permitted by a law to pronounce public 
orations at the funeral of a woman in praise of the deceased 
person, which till that time was peculiar to men. 

Would our English ladies, instead of sticking on a patch 
against those of their own country, show themselves so truly 
public-spirited as to sacrifice every one her necklace against 
the common enemy, what decrees ought not to be made in 
favor of them ! 

Since I am recollecting upon this subject such passages 
as occur to memory out of ancient authors, I cannot omit 
a sentence in the celebrated funeral oration of Pericles, 
which he made in honor of those brave Athenians that were 
slain in a fight with the Lacedaemonians. After having ad- 
dressed himself to the several ranks and orders of his 
■ countrymen, and shown them how they should behave them- 
selves in the public cause, he turns to the female part of 
his audience; "And as for you (says he), I shall advise you 
in a very few words : aspire only to those virtues that are 
peculiar to your sex ; follow your natural modesty, and think 
it your greatest commendation not tc be talked of one way or 
other." 



Addison and Gay. 89 

The Cat-Call. 

I have lately received the following letter from a country 
gentleman : 

" Mr. Spectator : The night before I left London I went 
to see a play, called 'The Humorous Lieutenant.' Upon the 
rising of the curtain I was very much surprised with the great 
consort of cat-calls which was exhibited that evening, and 
began to think with myself that I had made a mistake, and 
gone to a music-meeting instead of the play-house. It ap- 
peared, indeed, a little odd to me to see so many persons of 
quality of both sexes ^assembled together at a kind of cater- 
wauling ; for I cannot look upon that performance to have been 
anything better, whatever the musicians themsetves might 
think of it. As I had no acquaintance in the house to ask ques- 
tions of, and was forced to go out of town early the next morn- 
ing, I could not learn the secret of this matter. What I would 
therefore desire of you, is, to give some account of this strange 
instrument, which I found the company called a cat-call ; and 
particularly to let me know whether it be a piece of music 
lately come from Italy. For my own part, to be free with you, 
I would rather hear an English fiddle ; though I durst not show 
my dislike whilst I was in the play-house, it being my chance to 
sit the very next man to one of the performers. 
"I am, sir, 
"Your most affectionate friend and servant, 

"John Shallow, Esq." 

In compliance with Squire Shallow's request, I design this 
paper "as a dissertation upon the cat-call. In order to make 
myself a master of the subject, I purchased one the beginning 
of last week, though not without great difficulty, being in- 
formed at two or three toy-shops that the players had lately 
bought them all up. I have since consulted many learned 
antiquaries in relation to its original, and find them very much 
divided among themselves upon that particular. A Fellow of 
the Royal Society, who is my good friend and a great profi- 
cient in the mathematical part of music, concludes from the 
simplicity of its make and the uniformity of its sound that the 
cat-call is older than any of the inventions of Jubal. He j'ubal 
observes very well that musical instruments took their first rise 



The cat-call. 



Invention of 



90 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 

from the notes of birds and other melodious animals ; and 
what, says he, was more natural than for the first ages of man- 
kind to imitate the voice of a cat that lived under the same 
roof with them ? he added, that the cat had contributed more 
to harmony than any other animal, as we are not only be- 
,holden to her for this wind-instrument, but for our string music 
in general. 

Another virtuoso of my acquaintance will not allow the 
cat-call to be older than Thespis, and is apt to think it ap- 
peared in the world soon after the ancient comedy ; for which 
reason it has still a place in our dramatic entertainments ; nor 
must I here omit what a curious gentleman, who is lately 
returned from his travels, has more than once assured me, 
namely, that there was lately dug up at Rome the statue of 
a Momus, who holds an instrument in his right hand very 
much resembling our modern cat-call. 

There are others who ascribe this invention to Orpheus, and 
rp eus. look upon the cat-call to be one of those instruments which 

that famous musician made use of to draw the beasts about 
him. It is certain that the roasting of a cat does not call 
together a greater audience of that species than this instrument 
if dexterously played upon in proper time and place. 

But notwithstanding these various and learned conjectures, I 
cannot forbear thinking that the cat-call is originally a piece of 
English music. Its resemblance to the voice of some of our 
British songsters, as well as to the use of it, which is peculiar 
to our nation, confirms me in this opinion. It has at least 
received great improvements among us, whether we consider 
the instrument itself or those several quavers and graces 
which are thrown into the playing of it. Every one might 
be sensible of this who heard that remarkable, over-grown cat- 
call which was placed in the center of the pit, and presided over 
all the rest, at the celebrated performance lately exhibited in 
Drury Lane. 

London Cries. 

There is nothing which more astonishes a foreigner and 
frights a country squire than the cries of London. My good 
friend Sir Roger often declares that he cannot get them out of 
his head or go to sleep for them, the first week that he is 
in town. On the contrary, Will Honeycomb calls them the 



London cries. 



Addison and Gay. 



Ramage de la Ville, and prefers them to the sounds of larks 
and nightingales, with all the music of the fields and woods. I 
have lately received a letter from some very odd fellow upon 
this subject, which I shall leave with my reader, without saying 
anything further of it. 

"Sir: I am a man out of all business, and would willingly 
turn my head to anything for an honest livelihood. I have 
invented several projects for raising many millions of money 
without burthening the subject, but I cannot get the parlia- 
ment to listen to me, who look upon me, forsooth, as a crack 
and a projector ; so that despairing to enrich either myself or 
my country by this public spiritedness, I would make some 
proposals to you relating to a design which I have very much 
at heart, and which may procure me an handsome subsistence, 
if you will be pleased to recommend it to the cities of London 
and Westminster. 

"The post I would aim at is to be Comptroller-general of the 
London Cries, which are at present under no manner of rules Comptroller- 

general. 
or discipline. I think I am pretty well qualified for this place, 

as being a man of very strong lungs, of great insight into all the 
branches of our British trades and manufactures, and of a com- 
petent skill in music. 

"The cries of London may be divided into vocal and instru- 
mental. As for the latter, they are at present under a very 
great disorder. A freeman of London has the privilege of dis- 
turbing a whole street, for an hour together, with the twankling 
of a brass kettle or of a frying pan. The watchman's thump at 
midnight startles us in our beds as much as the breaking in of 
a thief. I would therefore propose that no instrument of this 
nature should be made use of which I have not tuned and 
licensed, after having carefully examined in what manner it 
may affect the ears of her majesty's liege subjects. 

"It is a great imperfection in our London cries that there 
is no just time nor measure observed in them. Our news 
should, indeed, be published in a very quick time, because it is 
a commodity that will not keep cold. It should not, however, 
be cried with the same precipitation as ' fire ' ; yet this is gener- 
ally the case. A bloody battle alarms the town from one end 
to another in an instant. Every motion of the French is 
published in so great a hurry that one would think the enemy 
were at our gates. This likewise I would take upon me to 



Time and 
measure. 



92 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Centiiry. 

regulate in such a manner that there should be some distinc- 
tion made between the spreading of a victory, a march, or an 
encampment, a Dutch, a Portugal, or a Spanish mail. Nor 
must I omit under this head those excessive alarms with which 
several boisterous rustics infest our streets in turnip season; 
and which are more inexcusable, because these are wares 
which are in no danger of cooling upon their hands." 

The Newspaper. 
This extract goes to show that human nature, after 
all, is not so much changed as we might infer from other 
traits of our ancestors. 

" Mr. Spectator : You must have observed that men who 

The newspaper, frequent coffee-houses and delight in news are pleased with 
everything that is matter of fact, so it be what they have not heard 
before. A victory or a defeat are equally agreeable to them. 
The shutting of a cardinal's mouth pleases them one post, and 
the opening of it another. They are glad to hear the French 
court is removed to Marli, and are afterward as much delighted 
with its return to Versailles. They read the advertisements 
with the same curiosity as the articles of public news ; and are 
as pleased to hear of a piebald^ horse that is strayed out of a 
field near Islington as of a whole troop that has been engaged 
in any foreign adventure. In short, they have a relish for 
everything that is news, let the matter of it be what it will ; or 
to speak more properly, they are men of a voracious appetite, 
but no taste. Now, sir, since the great fountain of news, I 
mean the war, is very near being dried up ; and since these 
gentlemen have contracted such an inextinguishable thirst after 
it ; I have taken their case and my own into consideration, and 
have thought of a project which may turn to the advantage of 
us both. I have thoughts of publishing a daily paper, which 
. shall comprehend in it all the most remarkable occurrences in 

Daily intel- every little town, village, and hamlet, that lie within ten miles 

— of London, or, in other words, within the verge of the penny- 

post. I have pitched upon this scene of intelligence for two 
reasons : first, because the carriage of letters will be very cheap ; 
and secondly, because I may receive them every day. By this 
means my readers will have their news fresh and fresh, and 
many worthy citizens who cannot sleep with any satisfaction at 



Trial of 



Addison and Gay. 93 

present, for want of being informed how the world goes, may 
go to bed contentedly, it being my design to put out my paper 
every night at nine-a-clock precisely. I have already estab- 
lished correspondences in these several places, and received 
very good intelligence. " 

Trial of Punctilios. I. 

The proceedings of the Court of Honor, held in Sheer Lane, on 
Monday, the 20th of November, 17 10, before Isaac Bicker- 
staff e, Esq., Censor of Great Britaitt. 

Peter Plumb, of London, merchant, was indicted by the 
Honorable Mr. Thomas Gules, of Gule Hall, in the county of 
Salop, for that the said Peter Plumb did in Lombard Street, 
London, between the hours of two and three in the afternoon, punctilios, 
meet the said Mr. Thomas Gules, and after a short salutation, 
put on his hat, value fivepence, while the Honorable Mr. 
Gules stood bare-headed for the space of two seconds. It 
was further urged against the criminal that, during his dis- 
course with the prosecutor, he feloniously stole the wall of 
him, having clapped his back against it in such a manner that 
it was impossible for Mr. Gules to recover it again at his 
taking leave of him. The prosecutor alleged that he was the 
cadet of a very ancient family, and that, according to the 
principles of all the younger brothers of the said family, he 
had never sullied himself with business, but had chosen 
rather to starve like a man of honor than do anything 
beneath his quality. He produced several witnesses that he 
had never employed himself beyond the twisting of a whip, or 
the making of a pair of nutcrackers, in which he only worked 
for his diversion, in order to make a present now and then to 
his friends. The prisoner being asked what he could say for 
himself, cast several reflections upon the Honorable Mr. Reflections on 
Gules : as, that he was not worth a groat ; that nobody in the ^' ^^' 
city would trust him for a halfpenny ; that he owed him money 
which he had promised to pay him several times, but never 
kept his word : and in short, that he was an idle, beggarly 
fellow, and of no use to the public. This sort of language 
was very severely reprimanded by the Censor, who told the 
criminal that he spoke in contempt of the court, and that he 
should be proceeded against for contumacy if he did not 



94 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 

change his style. The prisoner, therefore, desired to be heard 
by his counsel, who urged in his defense, "That he put on his 
hat through ignorance, and took the wall by accident." They 
likewise produced several witnesses that he made several 
motions with his hat in his hand, which are generally under- 
stood as an invitation to the person we talk with to be 
covered ; and that the gentleman not taking the hint, he was 
forced to put on his hat, as being troubled with a cold. There 
was likewise an Irishman who deposed that he had heard him 
cough three and twenty times that morning. And as for the 
wall, it was alleged that he had taken it inadvertently, to save 
himself from a shower of rain which was then falling. The 
Verdict of the Censor having consulted the men of honor who sat at his 
"'"'^^" right hand on the bench, found they were of opinion that the 

defense made by the prisoner's counsel did rather aggravate 
than extenuate his crime ; that the motions and intimations of 
the hat were a token of superiority in conversation, and there- 
fore not to be used by the criminal to a man of the prosecutor's 
quality, who was likewise vested with a double title to the 
wall at the time of their conversation, both as it was the upper 
hand, and as it was a shelter from the weather. . . . The 
Censor, Mr. Bickerstaffe, finally pronounced sentence against 
the criminal in the following manner : That his hat, which was 
the instrument of offense, should be forfeited to the court; 
that the criminal should go to the warehouse from whence he 
came, and thence, as occasion should require, proceed to the 
Exchange, or Garraway's Coffee-house, in what manner he 
pleased ; but that neither he, nor any other family of the 
Plumbs, should hereafter appear in the streets of London, out 
of the coaches, that so the footway might be left open and 
undisturbed for their betters. 

Trial of Punctilios. II. 

The Lady Townly brought an action of debt against Mrs. 
Lady Townly's Flambeau, for that Mrs. Flambeau had not been to see the said 
action. Lady Townly, and wish her joy, since her marriage with Sir 

Ralph, notwithstanding she, the said Lady Townly, had paid 
Mrs. Flambeau a visit upon her first coming to town. It was 
urged in the behalf of the defendant that the plaintiff had never 
given her any regular notice of her being in town ; that the 



Addison and Gay. 



95 



of a visit. 



visit she alleged had been made on a Monday, which she knew 

was a day on which Mrs. Flambeau was always abroad, having 

set aside that only day in the week to mind the affairs of 

her family ; that the servant who inquired whether she was at 

home did not give the visiting knock ; that it was not between 

the hours of five and eight in the evening ; that there were no 

candles lighted up ; that it was not on Mrs. Flambeau's day ; Essential points 

and, in short, that there was not one of the essential points 

observed that constitute a visit. She further proved by her 

porter's book, which was produced in court, that she had paid 

the Lady Townly a visit on the twenty-fourth day of March, 

just before her leaving the town, in the year 1709-10, for which 

she was still creditor to the said Lady Townly. To this the 

plaintiff only replied that she was now only under covert, and 

not liable to any debts contracted when she was a single 

woman. Mr. Bickerstaffe finding the cause to be very intricate, 

and that several points of honor were likely to arise in it, 

he deferred giving judgment upon it till the next session day, 

at which time he ordered the ladies on his left hand to present 

to the court a table of all the laws relating to visits. 



Trial of Punctilios. IIL 

Oliver Bluff and Benjamin Browbeat were indicted for going 
to fight a duel since the erection of the Court of Honor. It 
appeared that they were both taken up in the street as they 
passed by the court, in their way to the fields behind Montague 
House. The criminals would answer nothing for themselves 
but that they were going to execute a challenge which had 
been made above a week before the Court of Honor was 
erected. The Censor finding some reasons to suspect (by the 
sturdiness of their behavior) that they were not so very brave 
as they would have the court believe them, ordered them both 
to be searched by the grand jury, who found a breast-plate 
upon the one and two quires of paper upon the other. The 
breast-plate was -immediately ordered to be hung upon a peg 
over Mr. Bickerstaffe's tribunal, and the paper to be laid upon 
the table for the use of his clerk. He then ordered the crimi- 
nals to button up their bosoms, and, if they pleased, proceed to 
their duel. Upon which they both went very quietly out of the 
court and retired to their respective lodgings. 



Oliver Bluff 
and Benjamin 
Browbeat. 



96 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 



Practice of 
dueling. 



This extract shows, like other signs of the times, that 
the practice of dueUng was already become a subject of 
ridicule, and on the decline. The topic was under dis- 
cussion at this period, as might be seen in a long disser- 
tation about it by Richardson, through the mouth of his 
favorite hero, Sir Charles Grandison, which is, however, 
too long (and too dull) to quote. 



Country man- 
ners. 



A reformation. 



Country Manners. 

The first and most obvious reflections which arise in a man 
who changes the city for the country, are upon the different 
manners of the people whom he meets with in those two dif- 
ferent scenes of life. By manners I do not mean morals, but 
behavior and good breeding, as they show themselves in the 
town and in the country. 

And here, in the first place, I must observe a very great revo- 
lution that has happened in this article of good breeding. 
Several obliging deferences, condescensions, and submissions, 
with many outward forms and ceremonies that accompany 
them, were first of all brought up among the politer part of 
mankind, who lived in courts and cities, and distinguished 
themselves from the rustic part of the species (who on all 
occasions acted bluntly and naturally) by such a mutual com- 
plaisance and intercourse of civilities. These forms of conver- 
sation by degrees multiplied and grew troublesome ; the 
modish world found too great a constraint in them, and have 
therefore thrown most of them aside. Conversation, like the 
Romish religion, was so encumbered with show and ceremony 
that it stood in need of a reformation to retrench its superflu- 
ities and restore its natural good sense and beauty. At present, 
therefore, an unconstrained carriage and a certain openness of 
behavior are the height of good breeding. The fashionable 
world is grown free and easy ; our manners sit more loose 
upon us ; nothing is so modish as an agreeable negligence. In 
a word, good breeding shows itself most where to an ordinary 
eye it appears the least. 

There has happened another revolution in the point of good 
breeding, which relates to the conversation among men of 
mode, and which I cannot but look upon as very extraordinary. 



Addison a?td Gay. 97 

It was certainly one of the first distinctions of a well-bred man 
to express everything that had the most remote appearance of 
being obscene in modest terms and distant phrases ; whilst the 
clown, who had no such delicacy of conception and expression, 
clothed his ideas in those plain homely terms that are the most 
obvious and natural. This kind of good manners was perhaps 
carried to an excess, so as to make conversation too stiff, 
formal, and precise ; for which reason (as hypocrisy in one age 
is generally succeeded by atheism in another) conversation is in 
a great measure relapsed into the first extreme ; so that at 
present several of our men of the town, and particularly those 
who have been polished in France, make use of the most 
coarse, uncivilized words in our language, and utter themselves 
often in such a manner as a clown would blush to hear. 

This infamous piece of good breeding, which reigns among 
the coxcombs of the town, has not yet made its way into the [^^ o'^^'^lnd'"^ 
country ; and as it is impossible for such an irrational way of country, 
conversation to last long among a people that makes any pro- 
fession of religion, or show of modesty, if the country gentle- 
men get into it, they will certainly be left in the lurch. Their 
good breeding will come too late to them, and they will be 
thought a parcel of lewd clowns, while they fancy themselves 
talking together like men of wit and pleasure. 

The Hood. 



The hood. 



One of the fathers, if I am rightly informed, has defined a 
woman to be, "An animal that delights in finery." I have 
already treated of the sex in two or three papers, conformably 
to this definition, and have in particular observed that in all 
ages they have been more careful than the men to adorn that 
part of the head which we generally call the outside. 

This observation is so very notorious that when in ordinary 
discourse we say a man has a fine head, a long head, or a good 
head, we express ourselves metaphorically, and speak in 
relation to his understanding ; whereas, when we say of a 
woman she has a fine, a long, or a good head, we speak only in 
relation to her commode. 

It is observed among birds that nature has lavished all her ^ ^ , 

, r . Ornaments ot 

ornaments upon the male, who very often appears m a most birds. 

beautiful headdress; whetheroit be a crest, a comb, a tuft of 



98 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 



Female heads 



Hoods at the 
opera. 



feathers, or a natural little plume, erected like a kind of pin- 
nacle on the very top of the head. As nature, on the contrary, 
has poured out her charms in the greatest abundance upon the 
female part of our species, so they are very assiduous in be- 
stowing upon themselves the finest garnitures of art. The 
peacock, in all his pride, does not display half the colors that 
appear in the garments of a British lady when she is dressed 
either for a ball or a birthday. 

But to return to our female heads. The ladies have been for 
some time in a kind of molting season with regard to that part 
of their dress, having cast off great quantities of ribbon, lace, 
and cambric, and in some measure reduced the human head to 
the beautiful globular form which is natural to it. We have for 
a great while expected what kind of ornament would be sub- 
stituted in the place of those antiquated commodes. But our 
female projectors were all the last summer so taken up with 
the improvement of their petticoats that they had not time 
to attend to anything else ; but having at length sufficiently 
adorned their lower parts, they now begin to turn their 
thoughts upon the other extremity, as well remembering 
the kitchen proverb that if you light a fire at both ends the 
middle will shift for itself. 

I am engaged in this speculadon by a sight which I lately met 
with at the opera. As I was standing in the hinder part of the 
box I took notice of a little cluster of women sitting together in 
the prettiest colored hoods that I ever saw. One of them was 
blue, another yellow, and another philemot, the fourth was of a 
pink color, and the fifth of a pale green. I looked with as much 
pleasure upon this little parti-colored assembly as upon a bed 
of tulips, and did not know at first whether it might be an 
embassy of Indian queens ; but upon my going about into the 
pit, and taking them in front, I was immediately undeceived, 
and saw so much beauty in every face that I found them all to 
, be English. Such eyes and lips, cheeks and foreheads, could 
be the growth of no other country. The complexion of their 
faces hindered me from observing any further the color of their 
hoods, though I could easily perceive by that unspeakable satis- 
faction which appeared in their looks that their own thoughts 
were wholly taken up on those pretty ornaments they wore 
upon their heads. 

I am informed that this fashion spreads daily, insomuch that 



Addison and Gay. 99 

the Whig and Tory ladies begin already to hang out different 

colors, and to show their principles in their head-dress. Nay, whig and 

if I may believe my friend Will Honeycomb, there is a certain '^'^'^^ colors. 

old coquette of his acquaintance who intends to appear very 

suddenly in a rainbow hood, like the Iris in Dryden's Virgil, 

not questioning but that among such a variety of colors she 

shall have a charm for every heart. 

My friend Will, who very much values himself upon his great 
insights into gallantry, tells me that he can already guess at the 
humor a lady is in by her hood, as the courtiers of Morocco 
know the disposition of their present emperor by the color of 
the dress which he puts on. When Melesinda wraps her head 
in flame color, her heart is set upon execution. When she 
covers it with purple, I would not, says he, advise her lover to 
approach her ; but if she appears in white, it is peace, and he 
may hand her out of her box with safety. 

■ Will informs me likewise that these hoods may be used as 
signals. Why else, says he, does Cornelia always put on a Hoods as sig- 
black hood when her husband is gone into the country ? 

A Lady's Diary. 

" Dear Mr. Spectator : You having set your readers an 
exercise in one of your last week's papers, I have performed 
mine according to your orders, and herewith send it you A lady's 
enclosed. You must know, Mr. Spectator, that I am a maiden '^'^^' 
lady of a good fortune, who have had several matches offered 
me for these ten years last past, and have at present warm 
applications made to me by a very pretty fellow. As I am at 
my own disposal, I come up to town every winter, and pass my 
time in it after the manner you will find in the following journal, 
which I began to write upon the very day after your Spectator 
upon that subject. 

' ' Tuesday night. Could not go to sleep till one in the morn- 
ing for thinking of my journal. 

"Wednesday, From eight to ten. Drank two dishes of 
chocolate in bed, and fell asleep after them. 

''From ten to eleven. Eat a slice of bread and butter, drank a 
dish of bohea, read the Spectator. 

''From eleven to one. At my toilette, tried a new head. Gave 
orders for Veny to be combed and washed. Mem. : I look best 
in blue. 



loo Me7i and Mangier s of the Eightee^ith Century. 



Shopping. 



Reading the 
play bills. 



Worked a 
violet. 



^^ From one till half an hour after two. Drove to the 'Change. 
Cheapened a couple of fans. 

"■Till four. At dinner. Mem.: Mr. Froth passed by in his 
new liveries. 

"From four to six. Dressed, paid a visit to old lady Blithe 
and her sister, having before heard they were gone out of town 
that day. • 

"From six to eleven. At basset. Mem.: Never set again 
upon the ace of diamonds. 

"Thursday. From, eleven at night to' eight in the morning. 
Dreamed that I punted to Mr. Froth. 

" From eight to ten. Chocolate. Read two acts in 'Auren- 
zebe' a-bed. 

" From ten to eleven. Tea-table. Read the play bills. Received 
a letter from Mr. Froth. Mem. : Locked it up in my strong-box. 

"Rest of the morning. Fontange, the tire-woman, her 
account of Lady Blithe's wash. Broke a tooth in my little 
tortoise-shell comb. Sent Frank to know how my lady Hectick 
rested after her monkey's leaping out at the window. Looked 
pale. Fontange tells me my glass is not true. Dressed by 
three. 

"From, three to four. Dinner cold before I sat down. 

" From, four to eleven. Saw company. Mr. Froth's opinion 
of Milton. His account of the Mohocks. His fancy for a pin- 
cushion. Picture in the lid of his snuff-box. Old Lady Faddle 
promises me her woman to cut my hair. Lost five guineas at 
crimp. 

" Twelve o'' clock at night. Went to bed. 

"Friday. Eight in the morning. A-bed. Read over all 
Mr. Froth's letters. 

" Te7t o' clock. Stayed within all day, not at home. 

* 'From ten to twelve. In conference with my mantua-maker. 
Sorted a suit of ribband. Broke my blue china cup. 

"Frorn twelve to one. Shut myself up in my chamber, prac- 
ticed Lady Betty Modely's skattle. 

"One in the afternoon. Called for my flowered handkerchief. 
Worked half a violet leaf in it. Eyes ached, and head out of 
order. Threw by my work and read over the remaining part 
of ' Aurenzebe.' 

" From, three to four. Dined. 

" Froin four to tzvelve. Changed my mind, dressed, went 



Addison and Gay. 



abroad, and played at crimp till midnight. Found Mrs. Spitely 
at home. Conversation : Mrs. Brilliant's necklace false stones. 
Old Lady Loveday going to be married to a young fellow that 
is not worth a groat. Miss Prue gone into the country. Tom 
Townly has red hair. Mem.: Mrs. Spitely whispered in my 
ear that she had something to tell me about Mr. Froth. I am 
sure it is not true. 

"Between twelve and one. Dreamed that Mr. Froth lay at 
my feet and called me Indamora. 

"Saturday. Rose at eight o'clock in the morning. Sat The toilette. 
down at my toilette. 

"From eight to nine. Shifted a patch for half an hour before 
I could determine it. Fixed it above my left eyebrow. 

" From nifte to twelve. Drank my tea and dressed. 

" From, twelve to two. At chapel. A great deal of company. 
Mem. : The third air in the new opera. Lady Blithe dressed 
frightfully. 

"From, three to four. Dined. Mrs. Kitty called upon me 
to go to the opera before I was risen from table. 

" From, dinner to six. Drank tea. Turned off a footman for 
being rude to Veny. 

"Six o'clock. Went to the opera. I did not see Mr. Froth 
till the beginning of the second act. Mr. Froth talked to a "^^^ o^^r^.. 
gentleman in a black wig. Bowed to a lady in the front box. 
Mr. Froth and his friend clapped Nicolini in the third act. Mr. 
Froth cried out Ancora. Mr. Froth led me to my chair. I 
think he squeezed my hand. 

"Eleven at night. Went to bed. Melancholy dreams. 
Methought Nicolini said he was Mr. Froth. 

"Sunday. Indisposed. 

"Monday. Eight o' clock. Waked by Miss Kitty. 'Auren- 
zebe ' lay upon the chair by me. Kitty repeated without book The conjurer, 
the eight best lines in the play. Went in our mobs to the 
dumb man, according to appointment. Told me that my 
lover's name began with a G. Mem.: The conjurer was within 
a letter of Mr. Froth's name, etc. 

"Upon my looking back into this my journal, I find that I am 
at a loss to know whether I pass my time well or ill ; and indeed 
never thought of considering how I did it before I perused 



cise 



1 02 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 

your speculation upon that subject. I scarce find a single 
action in these five days that I can thoroughly approve of, 
except the working upon the violet leaf, which I am resolved to 
finish the first day I am at leisure. As for Mr. Froth and Veny, 
I did not think they took up so much of my time and thoughts 
as I find they do upon my journal. The latter of whom I will 
turn off if you insist upon it ; and if Mr. Froth does not bring^ 
matters to a conclusion very suddenly, I will not let my life 
run away in a dream. 

"Your hurhble servant, 

"Clarinda."' 
The Fan Exercise. 

I do not know whether to call the following letter a satire 
upon coquettes, or a representation of their several fantastical 
The fan exer- accomplishments, or what other title to give it ; but as it is I 
shall communicate it to the public. It will sufficiently explaia 
its own intentions, so that I shall give it my reader at length, 
without either preface or postscript. 

"Mr. Spectator : Women are armed with fans as men with 
swords, and sometimes do more execution with them. To 
the end, therefore, that ladies may be entire mistresses of the 
weapon which they bear, I have erected an Academy for the 
training up of young women in the Exercise of the Fan, 
according to the most fashionable airs and motions that are 
now practiced at court. The ladies who carry fans under me 
are drawn up twice a day in my great hall, where they are 
instructed in the use of their arms, and exercised by the 
following words of command : 

Handle your Fans, 

Unfurl your Fans, 

Discharge your Fans, 

Ground your Fans, 

Recover your Fans, 

Flutter your Fans. 
By the right observation of these few plain words of com- 
mand, a woman of a tolerable genius who will apply herself 
diligently to her exercise for the space of one half year, shall 
be able to give her fan all the graces that can possibly enter into 
that modish little machine. 

" But to the end that my readers may form to themselves a 



Addison and Gay. 



103 



right notion of this exercise, I beg leave to explain it to them 

in all its parts. When my female regiment is drawn up in array, The female 

with every one her weapon in her hand, upon my giving my '"^g""^"'- 

word to Handle their Fans, each of them shakes her fan at me 

■with a smile, then gives her right-hand woman a tap upon the 

shoulder, then presses her lips with the extremity of the fan, 

then lets her arms fall in an easy motion, and stands in readiness 

to receive the next word of command. All this is done with a 

•closed fan, and is generally learned in the first week. 

" The next motion is that of Unfurling the Fan, in which are 
comprehended several little flirts and vibrations, as also gradual 
and deliberate openings, with many voluntary fallings asunder 
in the fan itself, that are seldom learned under a month's prac- 
tice. This part of the exercise pleases the spectators more than 
any other, as it discovers in a sudden an infinite number of 
cupid's garlands, altars, birds, beasts, rainbows, and the like 
agreeable figures that display themselves to view, whilst every 
one in the regiment holds a picture in her hand. 

"Upon my giving the word to Discharge their Fans, they 
give one general crack, that may be heard at a considerable Discharge 
distance when the wind sets fair. This is one of the most diffi- Fans, 
cult parts of the exercise ; but I have several ladies with me 
who at their first entrance could not give a pop loud enough to 
be heard at the further end of a room, who can now Discharge 
a Fan in such a manner that it shall make a report like a pocket 
pistol. I have likewise taken care (in order to hinder young 
women from letting off their fans in wrong places or unsuitable 
occasions) to show upon what subject the crack of a fan may 
come in properly. I have likewise invented a fan with which a 
girl of sixteen, by the help of a little wind which is enclosed 
about one of the largest sticks, can make as loud a crack as a 
woman of fifty with an ordinary fan. 

" When the fans are thus discharged the word of command 
in course is to Ground their Fans. This teaches a lady to quit 
her fan gracefully when she throws it aside, in order to take up 
a pack of cards, adjust a curl of hair, replace a fallen pin, or 
apply herself to any other matter of importance. This part of 
the exercise, as it only consists in tossing a fan with an air upon 
a long table (which stands by for that purpose), may be learnt 
in two days' time as well as in a twelvemonth. 

"When my female regiment is thus disarmed, I generally let 



Ground Fans. 



I04 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 

them walk about the room for some time ; when on a sudden 
(like ladies that look upon their watches after a long visit) they 
all of them hasten to their arms, catch them up in a hurry, and 
place themselves in their proper stations upon my calling out 
Recover your Fans. This part of the exercise is not difficult, 
provided a woman applies her thoughts to it. 

"The Fluttering of the Fan is the last, and, indeed, the 
masterpiece of the whole exercise ; but if a lady does not mis- 
the Fan. spend her time, she may make herself mistress of it in three 

months. I generally lay aside the dog-days and the hot time of 
the summer for the teaching of this part of the exercise ; for as 
soon as ever I pronounce Flutter your Fans, the place is filled 
with so many zephyrs and gentle breezes as are very refreshing 
in that season of the year, though they might be dangerous to 
ladies of a tender constitution in any other. 

" There is an infinite variety of motions to be made use of in 
the Flutter of a Fan : there is the angry flutter, the modest 
flutter, the timorous flutter, the confused flutter, the merry 
flutter, and the amorous flutter. Not to be tedious, there is 
scarce any emotion in the mind which does not produce a suit- 
able agitation in the fan ; insomuch, that if I only see the fan 
of a disciplined lady, I know very well whether she laughs, 
frowns, or blushes. I have seen a fan so very angry that it 
would have been dangerous for the absent lover who provoked 
it to have come within the wind of it ; and at other times so 
very languishing that I have been glad for the lady's sake the 
lover was at a sufficient distance from it. I need not add that 
a fan is either a prude or coquette, according to the nature 
of the person who bears it. To conclude my letter, I must 
acquaint you that I have from my own observations com- 
piled a little treatise for the use of my scholars, entitled, The 
Passions of the Passions of the Fan ; which I will communicate to you if you 
Fa"- think it may be of use to the public. I shall have a general 

review on Thursday next ; to which you shall be very welcome 
if you will honor it with your presence. 

" I am, &c. 
" P. S. — I teach young gentlemen the whole art of gallanting 
a fan. 

"N. B. — I have several little plain fans made for this use, to 
avoid expense." 



CHAPTER IX. 

So much for the foUies of the time, as touched by the 
light pen of Addison in the papers of the Spectator. I 
add a part of the ' ' Trivia ' ' of John Gay, for its curious jo^n Gay's 
details of the street scenery, costume, and manners of "Tnvia." 
the time. Gay was a contemporary and friend of both 
Pope and Addison and a petted member of the clubs to 
which they belonged. He was one of those easy, ami- 
able, good-natured men who are the darlings of their 
friends, perhaps because their talents excite admiration 
without jealousy, while their characters are the object 
rather of fondness than respect. He entered life as a 
linen-draper's shopman, but soon relinquished this 
occupation to become dependent upon the great, with a 
vague pining after public employment for which his in- 
dolent, self-indulgent life rendered him singularly unfit. 
His " Beggar's Opera" was a really successful venture. "Beggar's 
The idea of it is said to have been suggested to him 
when he was living with Pope at Twickenham ; it was to 
transfer the song and style of Italian opera, then a novelty, 
to the lowest class of English life — a sort of parody on 
grand opera, while it became the origin of the English 
opera. Its immense vogue was something akin to that 
of ' ' Pinafore ' ' in our day. 

Extract from "Trivia; or the Art of Walking the 
Streets of London." 

Through winter streets to steer your course aright, 
How to walk clean by day, and safe by night ; 
How jostling crowds with prudence to decline, 
105 



io6 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 



Winding alleys. 



The shoe- 
black. 



The proper 
coat. 



When to assert the wall and when resign, 
I sing ; thou, Trivia, goddess, aid my song. 
Through spacious streets conduct thy bard along ; 
By thee transported, I securely stray 
Where winding alleys lead the doubtful way, 
The silent court and opening square explore, 
And long perplexing lanes untrod before. 
To pave thy realm and smooth the broken ways. 
Earth from her womb a flinty tribute pays. 
For thee the sturdy pavior thumps th,e ground, 
Whilst every stroke his laboring lungs resound ; 
For thee the scavenger bids kennels glide 
Within their bounds, and heaps of dirt subside. 
My youthful bosom burns with thirst of fame. 
From the great theme to build a glorious name, 
To tread in paths to ancient paths unknown. 
And bind my temples with a civic crown ; 
But more my country's love demands my lays ; 
My country's be the profit, mine the praise ! 

When the black youth at chosen stands rejoice. 
And " clean your shoes" resounds from every voice ; 
When late their miry sides stage coaches show. 
And their stiff horses through the town move slow ; 
When all the Mall in leafy ruin lies. 
And damsels first renew their oyster cries ; 
Then let the prudent walker shoes provide, 
Not of the Spanish nor Morocco hide ; 
The wooden heel may raise the dancer's bound. 
And with the scollop'd top his step be crown'd ; 
Let firm, well-hammered soles protect thy feet. 
Through freezing snows, and rains, and soaking sleet. 
Should the big last extend the shoe too wide. 
Each stone will wrench th' unwary step aside : 
The sudden turn may stretch the swelling vein, 
Thy cracking joint unhinge, or ankle sprain ; 
And, when too short the modest shoes are worn. 
You'll judge the seasons by your shooting corn. 

Nor should it prove thy less important care 
To choose a proper coat for winter's wear. 
Now in thy trunk thy D'Oyly habit fold. 
The silken drugget ill can fence the cold ; 



Addison aiid Gay. 



107 



The frieze's spongy nap is soak'd with rain, 

And showers soon drench the camlet's cockl'd grain ; 

True Witney broadcloth, with its shag unshorn, 

Unpierc'd is in the lasting tempest worn. 

Be this the horseman's fence, for who would wear 

Amid the town the spoils of Russia's bear ? 

Within the roquelaure's clasp thy hands are pent, 

Hands that, stretch'd forth, invading harms prevent. 

Let the looped bavaroy the fop embrace 

Or his deep cloke bespatter'd o'er with lace. 

That garment best the winter's rage defends 

Whose ample form without one plait depends. 

By various names in various countries known. 

Yet held in all the true surtout alone ; 

Be thine of Kersey firm, though small the cost. 

Then brave unwet the rain, unchill'd the frost. 

If the strong cane support thy walking hand 
Chairmen no longer shall the wall command, 
Ev'n sturdy carmen shall thy nod obey. 
And rattling coaches stop to make thee way ; 
This shall direct thy cautious tread aright, 
Though not one glaring lamp enliven night. 
Let beaux their canes with amber tipt produce 
Be theirs for empty show, but thine for use. 
In gilded chariots while they loll at ease. 
And lazily ensure a life's disease ; 
While softer chairs the tawdry load convey 
To courts, to White's, assemblies, or the play ; 
Rosy complexion' d health thy steps attends. 
And exercise thy lasting youth defends. 
Imprudent men Heaven's choicest gifts profane ; 
Thus some beneath their arm support the cane ; 
The dirty point oft checks the careless pace, 
The miry spots the clean cravat disgrace. 
Oh ! may I never such misfortune meet ! 
May no such vicious walkers crowd the street ! 
May Providence o'ershade me with her wings, 
While the bold muse experienc'd danger sings ! 

When sleet is first disturbed by morning cries. 
From sure prognostics learn to know the skies, 



The surtout. 



Weather sig- 
nals. 



io8 Men and Manners of the Eightee7ith Century. 



The umbrella. 



Pattens. 



Lest you of rheums and coughs at night complain, 

Surprised in dreary fogs or driving rain. 

When suffocating mists obscure the morn 

Let thy worst wig, long us'd to storms, be worn ; 

This knows the powder' d footman, and with care 

Beneath his flapping hat secures his hair. 

Be thou for every season justly drest, 

Nor brave the piercing frost with open breast ; 

And, when the bursting clouds a deluge pour, 

Let thy surtout defend the drenching shower. 

Good housewives all the winter's rage despise, 
Defended by the riding hood's disguise ; 
Or, underneath th' umbrella's oily shed, 
Safe through the wet, on clinking pattens tread. 
Let Persian dames th' umbrella's ribs display, 
To guard their beauties from the sunny ray ; 
Or sweating slaves support the shady load. 
When eastern monarchs show their state abroad ; 
Britain in winter only knows its aid. 
To guard from chilly showers the walking maid. 
But oh ! forget not. Muse, the patten's praise. 
That female implement shall grace thy lays ! 
Say from what art divine th' invention came. 
And from its origin deduce its name. 



BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

Essays of Joseph Addison. J. R. Green. 
Richard Steele (Men of Letters Series). 
Famous Plays. J. F. Molloy. (London, 
Beggar's Opera. John Gay. 



BOOK IV. 
RICHARDSON AND HARRIET BYRON. 

CHAPTER X. 

Now we come, and gladly, to our excellent Richard- 
son and his admiring circle of ladies. I have them 
before me, sitting in "the grotto" — Mr. Richardson The grotto, 
himself on the left, in cap and dressing-gown, with white 
legs and low slippers, holding the book, while at a small 
table opposite are Miss Mulso and Miss Prescott and 
Miss Highmore, in hats and paduasoys with Watteau 
backs. Miss Highmore has a book in her hand. What 
is she doing with that? Near Mr. Richardson, in an 
engaging attitude of attention, sits Mr. Mulso, the 
brother of Miss Mulso, and you must remember that 
Miss Prescott afterward became Mrs. Mulso ; while Miss 
Mulso became Mrs. Chapone, who wrote tedious though 
praiseworthy letters upon the conduct of young ladies. 
Next Mr. Mulso is Mr. Edward Mulso, his legs crossed, 
for he is sitting on a rather uncomfortable high seat 
against the wall of the grotto. The reverend Mr. Dun- The admiring 
combe is over with the ladies, and suspiciously near *^''^'^ ^' 
Miss Highmore, who afterward became Mrs. Duncombe. 
The wide door of the grotto stands open, and a straight 
walk and rather stiff trees are seen without, attained by 
two steps within the doorway. 

The picture is entitled ' ' Mr. Richardson reading the Reading the 

• r ,-• ^, 1 /- 1- ■ 1 ■ MS. of Sir 

Manuscript of Sir Charles Grandison, in 1751, to his charies 



Friends in the Grotto of his House at North End, from a 

log 



Grandison. 



no Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 



The author of 
''Clarissa." 



Criticisms on 
the work. 



Drawing made at the time by Miss Highmore. ' ' That 
is it. Miss Highmore is making the picture now, and 
that is a pencil, or some such instrument, in her hand. 
The picture (it is colored) faces the title-page of the 
second volume of ' ' The Correspondence of Samuel 
Richardson," by Anna Letitia Barbauld, who has pref- 
aced it with his ' ' Life ' ' and some remarks on his" writ- 
ings, from which I quote freely. 

The author of " Clarissa " was always fond of female society. 
He lived in a kind of flower-garden of ladies ; they were his 
inspirers, his critics, his applauders. Connections of business 
apart, they were his chief correspondents. He had generally a 
number of young ladies at his house whom he used to engage 
in conversation on some subject of sentiment, and provoke by 
artful opposition to display the treasures of intellect they 
possessed. Miss Mulso, afterward Mrs. Chapone ; Miss High- 
more, now Mrs. Duncombe ; Miss Talbot, niece to Lecker, an 
author of some much esteemed devotional pieces ; Miss Pres- 
cott, afterward Mrs. Mulso ; Miss Fieldings and Miss Colliers, 
resided occasionally with him. He was accustomed to give the 
young ladies he esteemed the endearing appellation of his 
daughters. He used to write in a little summer house, or 
"grotto," as it was called, within his garden, before the family 
were up, and, when they met at breakfast, he communicated 
the progress of his story, which, by that means, had every day 
a fresh and lively interest. Then began the criticisms, the 
pleadings for Harriet Byron or Clementina ; every turn and 
every incident was eagerly canvassed, and the author enjoyed 
the benefit of knowing beforehand how his situations would 
strike. Their own little peculiarities and entanglements, too, 
were developed, and became the subject of grave advice or 
lively raillery. 

Mrs. Duncombe (No. 7 in the picture) thus men- 
tions the agreeable scene in a letter to Mrs. Mulso 
(No. 5): 

I shall often, in idea, enjoy again the hours that we have so 
agreeably spent in the delightful retirement of North End : 



Richardson and Harriet Byron. 



For while this pleasing subject I pursue, 

The grot, the garden, rush upon my view ; 

There in blest union, round the friendly gate. 

Instruction, peace, and cheerful freedom wait ; 

And then a choir of listening nymphs appears 

Oppressed with wonder or dissolved in tears ; 

But on her tender fears when Harriet dwells. 

And love's soft symptoms innocently tells. 

They all, with conscious smiles, these symptoms view, 

And by those conscious smiles confess them true. 

Mr. Richardson was a friend to mental improvement in 
woman, though under all those restrictions which modesty ^'e^^ofwonfen 
and decorum have imposed upon the sex. Indeed, his senti- 
ments seem to have been more favorable to female literature 
before than after his intercourse with the fashionable world ; for 
Clarissa has been taught Latin, but Miss Byron has been made 
to say that she does even know which are meant by the learned 
languages, and to declare that a woman who knows them is as 
an owl among birds. 

Such was the atmosphere in which Samuel Richardson 
wrote his works, in their time regarded as great. There 
are three novels, "Pamela," published in 1740, "Clar- 
issa Harlowe," in 1748, and " Sir Charles Grandison" in 
1753- They are all three written upon one plan ; that 
is, the story is entirely told in letters, which are sup- Joveis.'^^^ 
posed to be written by the various persons in the action, 
a plan which is full of difficulties, especially for the nar- 
rative novel, where everything is told and nothing as- 
sumed ; for instance, Richardson has to devise reasons 
for keeping Sir Charles Grandison' s own sister away 
from his very important wedding — which occupies a 
whole volume in narration — in order that the relatives 
and guests, even the bride herself, may slip away in 
turn and ' ' take the pen ' ' that a consecutive account 
of the affair may be given incidentally to Lady G. and, 
as a matter of fact, to his public. 



112 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 



Letter-writing 

Richardson's 

forte. 



His gift of 
narration. 



But no matter. Letter-writing was Richardson's 
forte. He began it very early on his own account, and 
he created his characters by making them write letters. 
He has the reputation of being the real founder of the 
romance of private life ; for although the romances de 
longue haleine were gone or going out of fashion, a 
closer imitation of nature was lacking until Defoe pro- 
duced " Robinson Crusoe," from which it is said, but I 
doubt, that Richardson in some measure caught his own 
manner of accurate description of daily events. Mrs. 
Barbauld says : 

Richardson was the man who was to introduce a new kind of 
moral painting ; he drew equally from nature and from his own 
ideas. From the world about him he took the incidents, man- 
ners, and general character of the times in which he lived, and 
from his own beautiful ideas he copied that sublime of virtue 
which charms us in his Clarissa, and that sublime of passion 
which interests us in his Clementina. That kind of ficti- 
tious writing of which he has set the example disclaims all 
assistance from giants or genii. The moated castle is changed 
to a modern parlor ; the princess and her pages to a lady and 
her domestics, or even to a simple maiden, without birth or 
fortune ; we are not called on to wonder at improbable events, 
but to be moved by natural passions and impressed by salutary 
maxims. The pathos of the story and the dignity of the senti- 
ment interest and charm us ; simplicity is warned, vice re- 
buked, and from the perusal of a novel we rise better prepared 
to meet the ills of life with firmness, and to perform our respec- 
tive parts on its great theater. 

We, in the end of the nineteenth century, have got so 
far beyond, or away from, expecting giants and genii 
and moats in our novels, that we do not feel called upon 
to praise the author that avoids them ; but in the days 
of the ' ' Castle of Otranto ' ' it was otherwise. 

As a boy, Richardson had the gift of narration and 
employed it. He says himself somewhere : 



stories. 



Richardson and Harriet Byron. 113 

I recollect that I was early noted for having invention. I 
was not fond of play, as other boys ; my school-fellows used to His youthful 
call me "Serious" and "Gravity"; and five of them particu- 
larly delighted to single me out either for a walk, or at their 
fathers' houses, or at mine, to tell them stories, as they phrased 
it. Some I told them, from my reading, as true ; others from 
my head, as mere invention ; of which they would be most fond, 
and often were affected by them. One of them, particularly, I 
remember, was for putting me to write a story. All my stories 
carried with them, I am bold to say, a useful moral. 

"Pamela" was written in three months, and pub- 
lished in 1740. It was received with a burst of applause 
from all ranks of people. The novelty of the plan, the 
simplicity of the language, the sentiments of piety and 
virtue it contained, also a novelty, took at once the 
taste of the public. Every one was reading it. Even at 
Ranelagh it was usual for ladies to hold up the volumes 
of ' ' Pamela ' ' to one another, to show they had got the 
book that every one was talking of. 

Mrs. Barbauld says : 

The fame of this once favorite work is now somewhat tar- 
nished by time [she was writing about 1800], but the enthusiasm "Pamela." 
with which it was received shows incontrovertibly that a novel 
written on the side of virtue was considered as a new experi- 
ment. . . . But the production upon which the fame of 
Richardson is principally founded, that which will transmit his 
name to posterity as one of the first geniuses of the age in which 
he lived, is undoubtedly "Clarissa." 

The interest which ' ' Clarissa ' ' excited was increased 
by suspense. The interval of several months which 
passed between the publication of the first four volumes 
and the remaining four (yes, eight in all, and long, each 
of them) wound up its readers to the highest pitch of 
enthusiasm. Every reader, and that was everybody, had 
an opinion about the proper ending of the book, and 
they all wrote Richardson to express their views. 



114 Men arid Manners of the Eighteenth Ceritury. 

Philaretes writes : " Since I have heard that you design 

the end to be unhappy, I shall read no more." Miss 

Highmore says : "We could none of us read aloud the 

Effect on its affecting scenes we met with, but each read to ourselves, 

readers. _ * 

and in separate apartments wept. ' ' 



CHAPTER XI. 

Mrs. Barbauld says : 

After Mr. Richardson had pubHshed two works, in each of 
which the principal character is a female, he determined to give 
the v/orld an example of a perfect man. 

Hence came "Sir Charles Grandison," from which I .,^. ^^ , 

, ' " Sir Charles 

shall give the extracts I intend as specimens not only of Grandison." 
Richardson's work, but as pictures of the time. It is 
true that Richardson was accused by his contemporaries 
of ignorance of the real manners and modes of thought 
and feeling, prevalent in the fashionable world in which 
he makes the characters in this third novel move. Our 
friend Lady Mary is severe upon him on such points, 
although she says (on just receiving the book, lately 
published) : 

I was such an old fool as to weep over " Clarissa Harlowe." 
To say truth, the first volume softened me by a near resem- 
blance of my maiden days ; but on the whole 'tis most miserable 
stuff. . . . Yet the circumstances are so laid as to inspire 
tenderness, notwithstanding the low style and absurd incidents. 

And again : 

I have now read over "Sir Charles Grandison" — it sinks 
horribly in the third volume (so does the story of "Clarissa "). Lady Mary's 
When Richardson talks of Italy, it is plain he is no better °P'"'°"- 
acquainted with it than he is with Kingdom of Mancomingo. 
. . . It is certain there are as many marriages as ever. 
Richardson is so eager for the multiplication of them. I 
suppose he is some parish curate whose chief profit depends on 
weddings and christenings. He never probably had money 
enough to purchase a ticket for a masquerade, which gives him 
such an aversion to them ; though this intended satire against 



1 1 6 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 



Reality of 

Richardson's 

characters. 



Killing Clem- 
entina. 



them is very absurd on the account of his Harriet, since she 
might have been carried off in the same manner if she had been 
going from supper with her grandame. Her whole behavior, 
which he designs to be exemplary, is equally blameable and 
ridiculous. He has no idea of the manners of high life. His 
old LordM. talks in the style of a country justice, and his virtu- 
ous young ladies romp like the wenches round a may-pole. 
With all my contempt, I will take notice of one good thing, I 
mean his project of an English monastery. It was a favorite 
scheme of mine when I was fifteen. 

Later on, in 1755, she again says : 

This Richardson is a strange fellow. I heartily despise him, 
and eagerly read him, nay, sob over his works, in a most 
scandalous manner. The two first tomes of "Clarissa" 
touched me, as being very resembling to my maiden days ; and 
I find in the pictures of Sir Thomas Grandison and his lady, 
what I have heard of my mother and seen of my father. 

I am not troubled by Lady Mary's comments, for it 
is evident that Richardson, in all his books, makes his 
characters so real that they moved his contemporaries to 
the depths. If his fine ladies lack the supreme touches 
of fashion of Lady Mary's circle, they are nevertheless 
very human beings, and give us a vivid picture of the 
life in their time, yes, in her/ time. I prefer it of the 
three because it is the most amusing. "Pamela" is dull 
beyond words ; ' ' Clarissa ' ' is shocking to our ideas of 
propriety, although the morality is of good intent. I 
think I can persuade you that " Sir Charles " is at least 
entertaining, if even he, the man, appears not so per- 
fect as his author intended. 

Great debates took place in the author's female 
senate, as the chapters were read in the grotto, concern- 
ing the winding up of " Sir Charles Grandison." Some 
voted for killing Clementina, and very few were satisfied 
with the termination as it stands. I myself think it is 



Richardson and Harriet Byron. 117 

very well as it is, and as for most readers of our gener- 
ation, they are so glad to have the seven volumes reach 
any termination at all, they do not find fault. But this is 
to anticipate. 

There were none in his own age to give such a ver- 
dict. Richardson's "Correspondence" employs six Richardson's 
volumes, of which it may be safely said that three quar- ence/''^^^°"'^' 
ters of the space is occupied in the raptures of his * ' lady 
friends" over the successive events in the novels. He 
was a vain little man, it is evident ; and perhaps he pre- 
served the letters on account of the adulation they con- 
tain, certainly not, for the most part, for any intrinsic 
interest or literary merit. Here and there are to be 
found indications of his great goodness of heart, and 
patience under persistence, in the shape of aid extended 
to suffering ladies of the pen, whose means of living 
were as meager as their power of earning one. Many a 
five-pound note slipped into his letters of reply to such 
appeals. 

Richardson lived to be seventy. He had accumulated 
an easy fortune by his excellent diligence in writing, and 
retired to a pleasant suburban house at Parson's Green, 
near London, where he passed an honorable old age, 
surrounded, as we have seen him, by his female 
worshipers, 

"The History of Sir Charles Grandison, Bart.," occu- 
pies seven volumes, each of over three hundred pages. Seven volumes. 
It is all in letters between the principal persons, whose 
names are printed in the beginning, as appears on a play 
bill. This list includes Men, of whom there are twenty, 
chiefly lovers, otherwise relatives of Miss Harriet Byron ; 
Women, sixteen, at their head the name of the heroine ; 
and in separate lists, Italians, both men and women (as 
if they constituted another sex), fourteen in number. It 



1 1 8 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 

may be imagined that all these characters, writing to each 
other with immense prolixity, may fill seven volumes 
without difficulty. The difficulty now is to persuade 
people to read them. 

The book begins with the departure of Harriet Byron 
for a visit, her first visit to London, from her home in 
the country, where she lives with a delightful collection 
of relatives, her Uncle and Aunt Selby, the revered Mrs. 
Shirley, who is her grandmother by her mother's side, 
and so on. The key-note is struck in the first sentence, 
written by Miss Lucy Selby on the departure of her 
cousin for town : 

Your resolution to accompany Mrs. Reeves to London has 
greatly alarmed your three lovers. 

She went to town to visit her cousin, Mrs. Reeves, 
S l'^'^cS ^^'^^^ ^\^o seems to have been in very good society, and here 
she immediately began to create a sensation, for you 
must know that Harriet was very beautiful, besides being 
perfection in every other respect. You learn something 
about this in the second letter, addressed by Mr. Greville 
to Lady Frampton. Mr. Greville is one of the three 
original lovers. Greville is a sad dog, but being a 
country dog, not nearly so sad a dog as dogs we meet 
later, but he is madly and seriously in love with Miss 
Byron. Amongst a great many other things in his 
description of her personal charms, he says : 

Her cheek — I never saw a cheek so beautifully turned ; 
illustrated as it is by a charming carmine flush which denotes 
- sound health. A most bewitching dimple takes place in each 
when she smiles ; and she has so much reason to be pleased 
with herself and with all about her (for she is the idol of her 
relatives) that I believe from infancy she never frowned 5 nor 
can a frown, it is my opinion, sit upon her face for a minute. 
Her mouth — there never was so lovely a mouth. But no won- 
der ; since such rosy lips and such ivory and even teeth must 



Richardson ajid Harriet Byron. 



119 



give beauty to a mouth less charming than hers. Her nose — 
and so on, through a letter of eight pages, devoted to 
this and nothing else. 

Lady Betty Williams, being charmed with Harriet, 
persuaded her to go with her to a masquerade. She 
had misgivings as to the propriety of masquerades, 
duly set forth in her letters home, which she diligently 
wrote upon daily and nightly. For we are in the middle 
of the first volume, and at the twenty-second letter, 
before we come to the masquerade, about a month after 
her arrival. I must give her description of her costume. 

Our dresses are ready. Mr. Reeves is to be a hermit, Mrs. 
Reeves a nun, Lady Betty a lady abbess, but I by no means 
like mine, because of its gaudiness ; the very thing I was 
afraid of. 

They call it the dress of an Arcadian princess ; but it falls 
not in with any of my notions of the pastoral dress of Arcadia. 

A white Paris net sort of a cap, glittering with spangles and 
encircled by a chaplet of artificial flowers, with a little white 
feather peeking from the left ear, is to be my head-dress. 

My masque is Venetian. 

My hair is to be complimented with an appearance, because 
of its natural ringlets, as they call my curls, and to shade my 
neck. 

Tucker and ruffles blond lace. 

My shape is also said to be consulted in this dress. A kind 
of waistcoat of blue satin trimmed with silver point d'Espagne, 
the skirts edged with silver fringe, is made to sit close to my 
waist by double clasps, a small silver tassel at the end of each 
clasp ; all set off with bugles and spangles, which make a 
mighty glitter. 

But I am to be allowed a kind of scarf of white Persian 
silk, which, gathered at the top, is to be fastened to my 
shoulders, and to fly loose behind me. 

Bracelets on my arms. 

They would have given me a crook ; but I would not submit 
to that. It would give me, I said, an air of confidence to aim 
to manage it with any tolerable freedom ; and I was appre- 



The masquer- 
ade. 



Her costume. 



1 20 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 



Its extrava- 
gance. 



Her disappear- 
ance. 



hensive that I should not be thought to want that from the 
dress itself. A large Indian fan was not improper from the 
expected warmth of the place, and that contented me. 

My petticoat is of blue satin, trimmed and fringed as my 
waistcoat, I am not to have a hoop that is perceivable. They 
wore not hoops in Arcadia. 

- What a sparkling figure shall I make ! Had the ball been 
what they call a subscription ball, at which people dress with 
more glare than at a common one, this dress would have been 
more tolerable. 

But they all say that I shall be kept in countenance by 
masques as extravagant and even more ridiculous. 

Be that as it may, I wish the night was over. I dare say it 
will be the last diversion of this kind I ever shall be at ; for I 
never had any notion of masquerades. 

Expect particulars of all in my next. I reckon you will be 
impatient for them ; but pray, my Lucy, be fanciful, as I some- 
times am, and let me know how you think everything will be 
beforehand ; and how many pretty fellows you imagine in this 
dress will be slain by your Harriet Byron. 

Her misgivings were all too prophetic, for lo ! the 
very next letter begins thus : 

LETTER XXIIL 
Mr. Reeves to George Selby, Esq. 

Friday, February 17th. 
Dear Mr. Selby: No one, at present, but yourself must see 
the contents of what I am going to write. 
You must not be too much surprised. 

But how shall I tell you the news ; the dreadful news ? My 
wife has been low since three this morning in violent hysterics. 
You must not — but how shall I say you must not be too much 
affected, when we are unable to support ourselves. 

Oh, my cousin Selby ! We know not what is become of our 
dearest Miss Byron ! 

This was a blow ! And now for nineteen pages there 
is anguish and skurrying around, examining chairmen 
and valets and villains, letters between the anxious peo- 
ple in the country and the frantic people in the town, 



Richardson and Harriet Byron. 121 

long letters, with such ejaculations as these (from Uncle 
Selby): "Oh, Mr. Reeves! Dear, sweet child ! Flower 
of the world ! ' ' until at last Mr, Reeves writes : 

Oh, my Dear Mr. Selby : We have tidings — God be praised ! _. ,. 
we have tidings — not so happy, indeed, as were to be wished ; 
yet the dear creature is living, and in honorable hands — God 
be praised ! 

Read the enclosed letter directed to me. 

"Sir : Miss Byron is safe and in honorable hands. The first 
moment she could give any account of herself she besought me 
to quiet your heart and your lady's with this information. 

"She has been cruelly treated. 

" Particulars at present she cannot give. 

" She was many hours speechless. 

" But don't fright yourselves ; her fits, though not less 
frequent, are weaker and weaker. 

"The bearer will acquaint you who my brother is, to whom 
you owe the preservation and safety of the loveliest woman in 
England, and he will direct you to a house where you will be 
welcome with your lady (for Miss Byron cannot be removed) 
to convince yourselves that all possible care is taken of her, 
by, sir, " Your humble servant, 

'' Friday, February 17th. Charlotte Grandison." 

Mr. Reeves continues : 

In fits ! Has been cruelly treated ! Many hours speech- 
less ! Cannot be removed ! Her solicitude, though hardly 
herself, for our ease ! Dearest, dear creature ! But you will 
rejoice with me, my cousins, that she is in such honorable 
hands. She is at a nobleman's house, the Earl of L,, near Found. 
Colnebrook. 

This letter was written by the sister of the great, the 
glorious Sir Charles Grandison, for it was indeed he 
who had the good fortune and the bravery to rescue the 
loveliest woman in England from the hands of a wretch. 
This wretch was not the sad dog Greville, upon whom 
suspicion had immediately turned, but was the vile Sir 
Hargrave Pollexfen, a nobleman who saw Harriet on her 



122 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Centnry. 

first arrival in town and had instantly fallen in love with 
her. But she would have nought of him, in spite of his 
title and splendor, and brilliant position, for his reputa- 
tion was that of a rake. She had had time, thus early 
in the book, to refuse his advances several times, where- 
upon he devised the scheme to carry her off, which was 
perfectly successful in the outset. It is long before the 
reader becomes acquainted with the details of the ab- 
duction, which we finally have from Harriet's own lips, 
or rather from her diligent pen. The subject covers the 
rest of the first volume. 
Her preserver. Her preserver was Sir Charles Grandison, who, 
driving to town one morning in his chariot and six, 
outriders and all, encountered another chariot and six 
which contained Sir Hargrave PoUexfen and the un- 
willing Miss Byron. Her cries attracted Sir Charles to 
the spot, who with great courage and presence of mind 
stopped the other chariot. He is telling about this 
himself to Mr. Reeves : 

"Sirrah," said I to the coachman (for he lashed his horses 
on), "proceed at your peril." 

Sir Hargrave then with violent curses and threatenings 
ordered him to drive over every one that opposed him. 

"Coachman, proceed at your peril," said I. "Madam, will 
you — ' ' 

"O sir, sir, sir, relieve, help me, for God's sake ! I am in a 
His account villain's hands ! Tricked, vilely tricked into a villain's hands ! 
of the rescue. fjgjp^ ^elp, for God's Sake ! " 

"Do you," said I to Frederick, "cut the traces, if you 
cannot otherwise stop this chariot. Bid Jerry cut the reins, 
and then slice as many of those fellows as you can. Leave Sir 
Hargrave to me." 

The lady continued screaming and crying out for help. Sir 
Hargrave drew his sword, which he had held between his 
knees in the scabbard ; and then called upon his servants to 
fire at all that opposed his progress. 



Richardson and Harriet Byron. 123 

" My servants, Sir Hargrave, have firearms as well as yours. 
They will not dispute my orders. Don't provoke me to give 
the word." 

Then addressing the lady, " Will you, madam, put yourself 
into my protection ? " 

" O yes, yes, yes, with all my heart. Dear, good sir, protect 
me!" 

I opened the chariot door. Sir Hargrave made a pass at The attack 
me, ' ' Take that, and be damned to you for your insolence, 
scoundrel ! " said he. 

I was aware of his thrust and put it by ; but his sword a little 
raked my shoulder. 

My sword was in my hand, but undrawn. 

The chariot-door remaining open (I was not so ceremonious 
as to let down the footsteps to take the gentleman out), I seized 
him by the collar, before he could recover himself from the pass 
he had made at me ; and, with a jerk and a kind of twist, laid 
him under the hind wheel of his chariot. Sir Hargrave's face 
and mouth were very bloody. I believe I might have hurt him 
with the pommel of my sword. 

One of his legs in his sprawling had got between the spokes 
of his chariot-wheel. I thought that was a fortunate circumstance 
for preventing further mischief, and charged his coachman not 
to stir with the chariot for his master's sake. 

After some more details, Sir Charles goes on : 

The lady, though greatly terrified, had disengaged herself 
from the man's cloak. I had not leisure to consider her dress, 
but I was struck with her figure, and more of her terror. 

And then he breaks off the narration to remark : 

Have you not read, Mr. Reeves (Pliny I think gives the 
relation), of a frighted bird that, pursued by a hawk, flew for ^ird. "^ '^ 
protection into the bosom of a man passing by ? In like man- 
ner your lovely cousin, the moment I returned to the chariot- 
door, instead of accepting of my offered hand, threw herself 
into my arms. 

He continues the narration at great length. 
Harriet herself, afterward, was in great tribulation 
about this deed of hers, throwing herself thus into the 



124 -^'^ ^''^^ Manners of the Eighteenth Centtiry. 



Fleet marriage 
intended. 



Connections of 
the Grandison 
family. 



arms of a stranger. Such lack of punctilio, and that 
stranger the great, the noble Sir Charles Grandison ! 

The affair was now at an end. Sir Hargrave limped to 
his carriage, cursing and threatening vengeance, and Sir 
Charles brought the lady to the house of one sister and 
the arms of another. 

It was the intention of Sir Hargrave to force a 
marriage upon Miss Byron, the ceremony to be per- 
formed by what was in those days called a ' ' Fleet ' ' 
parson and his clerk. She was accordingly carried to a 
house in Paddington for that purpose, but she made 
such vigorous resistance, ' ' with screams, prayers, and 
tears," that Sir Hargrave in terror dismissed the parson 
and resolved to carry the lady in the chariot to his seat 
at Windsor, in order to be married there. The scheme 
was frustrated by the opportune meeting with Sir 
Charles Grandison. 

A close intimacy is now established between Miss 
Byron and the estimable sisters of Sir Charles, and it is 
soon to be seen that Harriet, hitherto obdurate toward 
all her lovers, is surrendering her afTections to this ' ' first 
of men." He, you must know, was living, not at his 
sister's, but in town in St. James's Square. 

Harriet is presented to all the connections of the 
Grandison family, especially his married sister and her 
husband. Lord L. They all of them receive Miss 
Byron with warmth and admiration. Miss Grandison 
is of a sprightly turn and does pretty much all the wit 
of the book. She is a little like Lady Mary Wortley, 
who, however, could not bear her. 

Harriet made a long visit at Colnebrook with the 
sisters, where Miss Grandison, ever obliging, indulged 
her in her choice of having a room to herself, upon 
which she writes : "I shall have the more leisure for 



Richardson and Harriet Byron. 125 

writing to you, my dear friend"; a leisure which she 
stretches to the utmost, as everything that is said, done, 
or thought by the three ladies is faithfully recorded for 
the enjoyment of the excellent family at Selby House. 

Even on the way from London to Colnebrook, ' ' the 
conversation in the coach turned upon the Grandison 
family, from which I gathered the following particu- 
lars." As these particulars take up nearly the whole of 
one volume, it would seem that the distance was long ; 
but, to be fair, there are breaks in the narrative, and the 
good ladies were more than a week in relating it and 
Harriet in transcribing it to her family. All that we History of the 
need know is that their father, Sir Thomas, one of the 
handsomest men of his time, was a dissipated char- 
acter who did his best to squander a large fortune 
inherited from a frugal father. Their mother. Lady 
Grandison, was the most excellent of women. She 
died early, leaving the daughters to live with their 
father, while Sir Charles was sent abroad for the ad- 
vantages of the tour. His two sisters had but a hard 
time of it in his absence, owing to the severity of 
their father and the indecorum of his way of living. 
This was brought to a close by the alarming illness and 
death of Sir Thomas, which caused the return of Sir 
Charles, who started at once for England on the notifi- 
cation by his sister of his father's danger, but arrived 
too late. 

Judge, my dear Lucy [says Harriet at this point], from the 
foregoing circumstances how awful must be to the sisters, after Return of Sir 
eight or nine years' absence, the first appearance of a brother Charles. 
on whom the whole of their fortunes depended. 

In the same moment he alighted from his post-chaise the 
door was opened ; he entered, and his two sisters met him in 
the hall. 

The graceful youth of seventeen, with fine curling auburn 



126 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 



Emotion of the 
sisters. 



His affection. 



locks waving upon his shoulders ; delicate in complexion ; in- 
telligence sparkling in his fine free eyes ; and good humor 
sweetening his lively features, they remembered ; and, forget- 
ting the womanly beauties into which their own features were 
ripened in the same space of time, they seemed not to expect 
that manly stature and air and that equal vivacity and intre- 
pidity, which every one who sees this brother admires in his 
noble aspect ; an aspect then appearing more solemn than 
usual, an unburied and beloved father in his thoughts. 

Sir Charles was now twenty-five ; he had been absent 
eight years on his travels. 

"O my brother!" said Caroline, with open arms (she was 
the oldest of the family), but, shrinking from his embrace, 
" May I say, my brother — " and was just fainting. He clasped 
her in his arms to support her. 

Charlotte, surprised at her sister's emotion, and affected with 
his presence, ran back into the room they had both quitted, 
and threw herself upon a settee. 

The reason the sisters were so alarmed was that Sir 
Thomas had been representing them to his son as dis- 
obedient, naughty girls. He had not approved of the 
addresses of Lord L., Caroline's lover, and Charlotte 
had boldly encouraged her sister's affair. As Charles 
was heir to his father, and therefore would now control 
their destinies, his favor was of grave importance. 

Her brother followed her into the room, his arm round Miss 
Caroline's waist, soothing her ; and with eyes of expectation, 
"My Charlotte!" said he, his inviting hand held out, and 
hastening toward the settee. She then found her feet, and 
throwing her arms about his neck, he folded both sisters to his 
bosom. " Receive, my dearest sisters, receive your brother, 
your friend." 

After a few words ' ' he pressed the hand of each to 
his lips, arose, went to the window, and drew out his 
handkerchief," then, shortly, "cast his eye on his 
father's and mother's pictures with some emotion ; then 
on them ; and again saluted each." 



Richardson and Harriet Byron. 127 

They withdrew. He waited on them to the stairs' head. 
"Sweet obligingness! Amiable sisters! In a quarter of an 
hour I seek your presence." Tears of joy trickled down their 
cheeks. In half an hour he joined them in another dress, and 
re-saluted his sisters with an air of tenderness that banished 
fear and left room for nothing but sisterly love. 

Everything now went finely for the sisters. At the Caroline 
end of eight months Sir Charles gave Caroline with his '"^"'^^• 
own hand to Lord L. Charlotte subsequently married 
Lord G., but at this period she had not made up her 
mind to do so. Sir Charles announced his intention, 
which I have no doubt he carried out, 

to dispose of his racers, hunters, and dogs as soon as he 
could ; to take a survey of the timber upon his estate, and sell 
that which would be the worse for standing ; and doubted not 
but that a part of it in Hampshire would turn to good account ; 
but that he would plant an oakling for every oak he cut down, 
for the sake of posterity. 

Now followed delightful days. Sir Charles was very 
busy in settling the affairs of his estate, with the execu- dats^^''"' 
tors, and also in making all those persons comfortable 
and happy whom his father had succeeded in making 
miserable. Harriet became deeply interested in these 
matters, and described them at great length in her 
letters. Meanwhile his frequent visits to his sisters and 
his evident admiration of Miss Byron not only increased 
her inclination toward him, but set the sisters to desir- 
ing a match between the prince of men and the angel of 
her sex. 

During this time Harriet's admirers increased in num- 
ber, and offers of marrias^e came in from every side : Harriet's 

' _ <=> -' ' admirers. 

she Steadily refused them, and this gave rise to the ques- 
tion whether her heart was still free. It was awkward, 
in those days of delicacy and punctilio, even more than 
it would be now, for her to admit to herself and others 



128 Men and Ma7iners of the Eighteenth Century. 



A theme for 
speculation. 



Conversations 
with Dr. 
, Ambrose 
Bartlett. 



a predilection in favor of a gentleman who, in spite of 
his evident admiration, made no sign of a deeper regard. 

Why did he not ? This, after Harriet's natural coyness 
was overcome, became a frequent theme for speculation 
with the three ladies. It was evident that something in 
the course of his travels, during eight years' absence, 
had occurred which stood in the way. As matter of 
fact they were devoured with curiosity. 

To satisfy this curiosity these ladies, if I may use the 
expression, put Harriet up to compassing about the 
excellent Dr. Ambrose Bartlett, the former tutor of Sir 
Charles, and now his close counselor and friend. 

Harriet one day writes to her Lucy that her host, Lord 
L. , and her two hostesses, being now pretty much ab- 
sorbed in reading all the mass of her letters about the 
masquerade, which at their request she had sent for 
to Selby House, 

gives me an opportunity of pursuing my own desires — and 
what, besides scribbling, do you think one of them is ? A kind 
of persecution of Dr. Bartlett, by which, however, I suspect 
that I am myself the greatest sufferer. He is an excellent man, 
and I make no difficulty of going to him in his closet, en- 
couraged by his assurances of welcome. 

Let me stop to say, my Lucy, that when I approach this good 
man in his retirement, surrounded by his books, his table 
covered generally with those on pious subjects, I, in my heart, 
congratulate the saint and inheritor of future glory ; and, in 
that great view, am the more desirous to cultivate his friend- 
ship. 

She admits that although their conferences begin with 
the great and glorious truths of Christianity, they drift 
round to the subject of Sir Charles, which is but natural, 
as the one subject, sublime as it is, brings on the other. 

The good doctor took it kindly, and in time fur- 
nished Harriet with the history of his first intimacy with 



the sisters. 



Richardson and Harriet Byron. 129 

Sir Charles, which he had already written down, with 
the permission to communicate to the ladies the revela- 
tion of all that had happened on the Continent during 
their absence. Her kind friends in the meantime were 
working upon the doctor in Harriet' s absence to dis- 
cover what he knew of the state of Sir Charles's affec- 
tions, in what we should now call a shameless manner. 
Of course all this came to Miss Byron's ears, and she 
repeated it in her letters. For instance : 

Miss G. Pray, doctor, is there any one lady (we imagine 
there is) that he has preferred to another in the different 
nations he has traveled through ? Curi9sity of 

Lord L. Ay, doctor, we want to know this ; and if you 
thought there were not, we should make no scruple to explain 
ourselves, as well as Miss Byron, to our brother. 

Don't you long to know [inserts Harriet] what answer the 
doctor returned to this, Lucy ? I was out of breath with impa- 
tience when Miss Grandison repeated it to me*. 

The doctor hesitated — and at last said : "I wish with all my 
heart Miss Byron could be Lady Grandison." 

Miss G. Could be ? 

" Could he,' ^ said each. 

And " could be " said the fool to Miss Grandison when she 
repeated it, her heart quite sunk. 

This was all they could elicit for the moment, for 
Harriet adds, ' ' The doctor, it seems, bowed but answered 
not." However, after another half- volume devoted to SirCharies. 
accounts of Sir Charles's generosity to dependents of all 
sorts, a day came (Harriet was staying on at Colnebrook 
all this time) when he requested a private interview 
with her. Imagine the agitation of the little circle. 

"Admirable Miss Byron," said Sir Charles as soon as he 
came in to breakfast, and then made the request ; then later : 
" May I hope, madam, by and by, for the honor of your hand 
to my lord's library ? " 

"Sir, I will — I will — attend you," hesitated the simpleton. 



Interview with 



1 30 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 



Uncertainty 
of his future. 



His sojourn on 
the Continent. 



The conversation began with some comments on the 
behavior of his sister, Miss Grandison, concerning a 
suitor of hers, Lord G., which Sir Charles could not 
quite approve, and he said so. Harriet writes : ' ' My 
spirits were not high ; I was forced to take out my hand- 
kerchief, ' ' 

When he was ready for the main subject, he thus 
began : 

" There seems," said he, "to be a mixtiire of generous con- 
cern and kind curiosity in one of the loveliest and most intelli- 
gent faces in the world. My sisters have in your presence 
expressed a great deal of the latter. Had I not been myself in 
a manner uncertain as to the event which must govern my 
future destiny, I would have gratified it ; especially as my Lord 
L. has of late joined in it. The crisis, I told them, however, as 
perhaps you remember, was at hand." 

" I do remember you said so, sir." And indeed, Lucy, it 
was more than perhaps. I had not thought of any words half so 
often since he spoke them. 

"The crisis, madam, is at hand. If you will be so good as to 
indulge me, I will briefly lay before you a few of the difficulties 
of my situation and leave it to you to communicate them to my 
two sisters and Lord L." 

At great length, thirty-three pages without a break, 
Sir Charles now entered upon and continued the narra- 
tion of certain events during his sojourn on the Conti- 
nent. Harriet listened breathless ; occasionally she was 
moved to tears, and once ' ' he stopt — his handkerchief 
was of use to him as mine was to me — what a distress 
was here." 

He began : 

At Bologna, and in the neighborhood of Urbino, are seated 
two branches of a noble family, marquises and counts of 
Porretta, which boasts its pedigree from Roman princes and has 
given to the church two cardinals ; one in the latter age, one in 
the beginning of this. 



Richardson and Harriet Byron. 131 

The Marchese della Porretta, who resides in Bologna, is a -pj^g Porretta 
nobleman of great merit ; his lady is illustrious by descent and family, 
still more for her goodness of heart, sweetness of temper, and 
prudence. They have three sons and a daughter. 

" Ah, that daughter," thought Harriet. 

After describing them thus, Sir Charles continued : 

The sister is the favorite of them all. She is lovely in her 
person, gentle in her manners, pious, charitable, beneficent. 
Her father used to call her "the pride of his life," her mother, 
" her other self, her own Clementina." 



CHAPTER XII. 



Clementina the 
rival of 
Harriet. 



Milton 
expounded. 



It is evident that Clementina is the rival of Harriet 
Byron in the affections of Sir Charles Grandison. 

The story briefly is this : Sir Charles rescued Jeronymo 
della Porretta, already his friend, from an attack of 
ruffians in a Httle thicket "in the Cremonese." The 
young count was wounded severely, and Sir Charles 
procured a surgeon, attended him to Cremona, and 
watched over him there till he could be removed. His 
whole family came to the bedside of their beloved son 
and brother, and all joined to bless his preserver. 
Never was there a more grateful family. They urged 
him to visit them at their various seats. Meanwhile 
Sir Charles initiated them into the knowledge of the 
English tongue by reading and expounding Milton to 
them. He told Harriet : 

Our Milton has deservedly a name among them from the 
friendship that subsisted between him and a learned nobleman 
of that country. Our lectures were usually held in the chamber 
of the wounded brother, in order to divert him. He also 
became my scholar. Clementina was seldom absent. She also 
called me her tutor, and she made a greater proficiency than 
either of her brothers. 

Clementina had a suitor, favored by all her family ; 
' she continually refused him, and upon being pressed and 
closely examined it became evident that she was in love 
with the English chevalier. Sir Charles, whose conduct 
was perfectly honorable in the matter, resolved to with- 
draw, and did so ; but after his departure she grew mel- 
ancholy, and even out of her mind, expressing her desire 

132 



Richardson and Harriet Byron. 133 

to go into a nunnery ; all was in vain, until a wise and 
judicious friend went to the bottom of the malady and 
advised the family thereupon. The tutor was sent for. 
This is Sir Charles's delicate manner of explaining 
what is coming : 

" He arrived at Bologna. He was permitted to pay his 
compliments to Lady Clementina. Jeronymo called the happy 
man 'brother.' The marquis was ready to recognize the fourth 
son in him. A great fortune additional to an estate bequeathed 
Tier by her two grandfathers was proposed. My father was to ' 

be invited over to grace the nuptials by his presence. 

"But," continued Sir Charles, "let me cut short the rest. 

The terms could not be complied with. For I was to make a Proposals of 
■ . ,- f. • 1 1 • T 1 1 the Porretta 

formal renunciation of my religion, and to settle in Italy ; only family. 

once in two or three years was allowed if I pleased for two or 
three months to go to England." [It was here that his hand- 
kerchief was of use to him.] 

He went on : " Satisfied in my own faith, entirely satisfied ! 
Having insuperable objections to that I was wished to embrace! 
A lover of my country too. Were not my God and my 
country to be the sacrifice if I complied ! but I labored, I 
studied, for a compromise." 

But no compromise was to be had. Sir Charles was 
allowed, desired, to depart from Bologna ; and shortly 
afterward, summoned by the death of his father, he re- 
turned to England, regarding this action as final. Eng[andL''*° 

But what was the consequence. In agitation he con- 
tinues : 

"Unhappy Clementina! Now they wish me to make them ^ 
one more visit to Bologna ! Unhappy Clementina ! To what 
purpose ! " 

He arose from his seat, "Allow me, madam, to thank you for 
the favor of your ear. Pardon me for the trouble I see I have 
given to a heart that is capable of a sympathy so tender." 

And bowing low, he withdrew with precipitation. 

There was endless discussion, in Richardson's coterie, 
-whether Sir Charles was in love, or not, with Clementina 



1 34 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 



Sentiments of 
Sir Charles. 



Dismay of 

Harriet's 

friends. 



at this point. I have omitted nothing in the account of 
the interview just given which would give a clue to his 
feelings, and have read the whole episode through many 
times with great care to find some acknowledgment or 
denial of his ardor for the Italian lady. Some of his 
admirers thought that he returned with a bleeding heart, 
or a heart left behind ; others, on the contrary, that he 
was untouched by the pathetic charms of Clementina, 
and therefore heart-whole when he first beheld Miss 
Byron. Others imagine that the dazzling image of Miss 
Byron drove the fainter impression from its hold upon 
his affections. Then some people regard Sir Charles as 
a being so cold as to be incapable of an ardent attach- 
ment. I for my part believe he cared nothing at all for 
Clementina ; still, I am not sure that Richardson has 
not somewhere said that he did care for her ; and he 
should know. 

There was dismay in the circle of Harriet's friends 
when it was revealed that Sir Charles Grandison was not 
altogether free to lay himself at her feet. Her mind 
turns toward her home in the country, and she warns 
everybody that she is about to go back. 

Sir Charles was quietly winding up his affairs and pre- 
paring to depart for Italy, with the intention of taking 
with him an accomplished surgeon of his acquaintance, 
to examine the wounds of Jeronymo, which were still 
extremely troublesome. This is the nominal excuse for 
his return to Bologna, but every one feels that another 
wound requires his healing presence, in the heart of 
Clementina. 

Just before leaving, Sir Charles sought another inter- 
view with Harriet. 

He led me to my seat, and taking his by me, still holding my 
passive hand: "Ever since I have had the honor of Miss 



Richardson and Harriet Byron. 135 

Byron's acquaintance I have considered her as one of the most 
excellent of women. My heart desires alliance with hers, and Another inter- 
hopes to be allowed its claim, though such are the delicacies of '^'^^" 
the situation that I scarcely dare to trust myself to speak upon 
the subject. From the first, I called Miss Byron my sister ; but 
she is more to me than the dearest sister ; and there is a more 
tender friendship that I aspire to hold with her, whatever may 
be the accidents on either side, to bar a further wish ; and this 
I must hope that she will not deny me, so long as it shall be 
consistent with her other attachments." 

He paused. I made an effort to speak, but speech was 
denied me. My face, as I felt, glowed like the fire before me. 

" My heart," resumed he," is ever on my lips. It is tortured 
when I cannot speak all that is in it. Professions I am not ac- 
customed to make. As I am not conscious of being unworthy 
of your friendship, I will suppose it, and further talk to you of 
my affairs and engagements as that tender friendship may 
warrant." 

" Sir, you do me honor," was all I could say. 

He then explained his intentions as to the course of 
his journey and talked of arrangements at home, 
amongst others the wedding of Charlotte Grandison and 
Lord G. , which the brother was anxious to see consum- 
mated before his departure. 

And there was a great wedding, described at length ; 
Charlotte behaving in a very foolish manner, under the Grandison's 



guise of coyness or wit ; even when she was led to the 
altar "her levity did not forsake her," Harriet says. 
It was only a family party, however. 

Between dinner and tea, at Lady L.'s motion, they made me 
play on the harpsichord ; and after one lesson they besought 
Sir Charles to sing to my playing. He would not, he said, 
deny any request that was made him on that day. 

He sung. He has a mellow manly voice, and great command 
of it. 

This introduced a little concert. Mr. Beauchamp took the 
vioHn, Lord L. the bass viol, Lord G. the German flute, and 



wedding. 



136 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Centtiry. 

most of the company joined in the chorus. The song was from 
"Alexander's Feast" ; the words, 

Happy, happy, happy pair, 
None but the good deserve the fair, 
Sir Charles, though himself equally both brave and good, pre- 
ferring the latter word to the former. 

The next letter begins : 

Saturday morning, April j^th. 
Oh, Lucy, Sir Charles Grandison is gone ! Gone, indeed ! 
Sir^Chades?^ He set out at three this morning ; on purpose, no doubt, to 
Bpare his sisters and friends, as well as himself, concern. 

The letter is filled with an account of the last evening, 
broken by such exclamations as : 

Angel of a man ! How is he beloved ! Lie down, hope. 
Hopelessness, take place. Clementina shall be his. He shall 
be hers. 

She was now to return to Selby House, and did so, 
putting up at Dunstable on Friday night. Mr. Beau- 
champ (a cousin of the Grandisons) and Mr. Reeves 
rode as her escort. Lord L. and Lord G. also obliged 
her with their company on horseback. 

After this, the scene is at Selby House, and Harriet is 
Harriet's writing to Lady G. with the same fidelity that she had 

Selby House, done to her Lucy. In return, every scrap of news from 
the travelers is forwarded to her by Dr. Bartlett or the 
Grandison ladies. The first is a long letter from Mr. 
Lowther, the surgeon, describing their passage over 
the Alps in the most dismal manner : 

The unseasonable coldness of the weather (it was May) 
and the sight of one of the worst countries under heaven, still 
clothed with snow and deformed by continual hurricanes. 

They reached the foot of Mount Cenis at break of day, 
at Lanebourg (Lansleburg?), 

a poor little village, so environed by high mountains that for 
three months in the twelve it is hardly visited by the cheering 



Richardson and Harriet Byron. i Sp- 

rays of the sun. Here it is usual to unscrew and take in pieces 
the chaises in order to carry them on mules over the mountain, 
and to put them together on the other side ; for the Savoy side 
of the mountain is much more difficult to pass than the other. 
But Sir Charles chose not to lose time ; and, therefore, left the 
chaise to the care of the inn-keeper. 

They were each carried on " a kind of horse with two 
poles, on which is secured a sort of elbow-chair." A 
man before, another behind, carried this machine, 
running and skipping like wild goats from rock to 
rock, four miles of that ascent. 

Sir Horace Walpole's veritable account is almost the 
same as this. 

Sir Charles now addressed his letters to Dr. Bartlett, Letters to Dr. 
with the full understanding that they were to be given to 
his sisters for perusal, including Miss Byron. 

He writes from Bologna, June 14-25: 

Having the honor of an invitation to a conversation visit, I 
went to the palace of Porretta in the morning. After sitting 
about half an hour with my friend Jeronymo, I was admitted to 
the presence of Lady Clemerftina. Her parents and the bishop 
were with her. "Clementina, chevalier," said her mother, 
" was inquiring for you. She is desirous to recover her English. 
Are you willing, sir, to undertake your pupil again ? " 

"Ah, chevalier," said the young lady, "those were happy 
times and I want to recover them. I want to be as happy as I 
was then." 

"You have not been very well, madam ; and is it not better 
to defer our lectures for some days, till you are quite estab- 
lished in your health ? " 

" Why, that is the thing. I know that I am not yet quite well, 
and I want to be so ; and that is the reason that I would recover 
my English." 

" You will soon recover it, madam, when you begin. But at interview with 
present the thought, the memory, it would require you to Clementina, 
exert would perplex you. I am afraid the study would rather 
retard than forward your recovery." 



138 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 



Her impaired 
memory. 



A delicate 
compliment. 



"Why, now, I did not expect this from you, sir. My mama 
has consented." 

" I did, my dear, because I would deny you nothing that your 
heart was set upon ; but the chevaUer has given you such good 
reasons to suspend his lectures that I wish you would not 
be earnest in your request." 

" But I can't help it, madam. I want to be happy." 

"Well, madam, let us begin now. What English book have 
you at hand?" 

" I don't know, but I will fetch one." 

She slipt out, Camilla [the maid] after her ; and the poor 
lady, forgetting her purpose, brought down some of her own 
work, the first thing that came to hand out of a drawer that she 
pulled out in her dressing-room, instead of looking in her book- 
case. It is an unfinished piece of Noah's Ark and the rising 
deluge, the execution admirable. And coming to me, "I 
wonder where it has lain all this time. Are you a judge of 
women's work, chevalier?" 

She went to the table. " Come hither, and sit down by me." 
I did. " Madam," to her mother, "my lord," to her brother, 
" come and sit down by the chevalier and me." They did. She 
spread it on the table, and in an attentive posture, her elbow 
on the table, her head on one hand, pointing with the finger of 
the other, " Now tell me your opinion of this work." 

I praised, as it deserved, the admirable finger of the work- 
woman. " Do you know, that's mine, sir? But tell me — every- 
body can praise — do you see no fault ? " 

" I think that is one," said I, and pointed to a disproportion 
that was pretty obvious. 

"Why, so it is. I never knew you to be a flatterer." 

"Men who can find fault more gracefully," said the bishop, 
"than others praise, need not flatter." 

"Why, that is true," said she. She sighed ; "I was happy 
when I was about this work. And the drawing was my own 
too, after — after — I forget the painter. But you think it 
tolerable — do you?" 

"I think it, upon the whole, very fine ; if you could rectify 
that one fault, it would be a masterpiece." 

"Well, I think I'll try, since you like it." She rolled it up. 
" Camilla, let it be put on my toilette." 



CHAPTER XIII. 

This Clementina episode, which is spun out to great 
length, was to many of the coterie the most touching 
and admirable part of the work. The character of TheCiemen- 

. 1 I If • *'"^ episode. 

Ciementma, and her sufienngs (most or which I have 
omitted) caused by the unkindness or want of judgment 
of her keepers and guardians, caused buckets of tears to 
be shed by the readers of Richardson, while the anguish 
of suspense endured by the good people at home, I 
mean the people in the book who were interested in the 
fate of Harriet, was shared by all London. 

As for me, I never cared very much about the Italian 
part of the book. Lady Mary is quite right when she Richardson's 

•r»-ij • -i-iTii Ignorance of 

says Richardson is no more acquainted with Italy than itaiy. 
he is with the Kingdom of Mancomingo. It is quite extra- 
ordinary that a man of Sir Charles's cultivation should be 
capable of traveling for eight years on the Continent, 
tarrying especially in the cities of Italy, to bring home 
so little material with which to adorn his conversation. 
I do not remember his even mentioning the works of 
art, paintings, sculpture, which must have already existed 
in those towns ; the St. Cecilia of Raphael must have been 
hanging in the cathedral of Bologna ; to be sure, his 
religious convictions would have prevented his entering 
it. Apart from this, my interests are on the side of 
Harriet Byron, and I am always glad to get him safe 
home again, away from the entanglements of the 
Porretta family. 

Miss Byron writes to Lady G. from Selby House, after 
ample comments on the Italian letters forwarded to her : 



1 40 Me7i and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 

As to my health, I would fain be well. I am more sorry that 

Miss Byron's I am not for the sake of my friends (who are incessantly griev- 

If' fv'^®t?°'" ins: for me) than for my own. I have not, I think I have not, 

Selby House. a j j > > 

anything to reproach myself with, nor yet anybody to reproach 
me. To whom have I given cause of triumph over me by my 
ill usage or insolence to them ? I yield to an event to which I 
ought to submit; and to a woman not less, but more worthy 
than myself ; and who has a prior claim. 

I long to hear of the meeting of this noble pair. May it be 
propitious ! May Sir Charles Grandison jiave the satisfaction 
and the merit with the family of being the means of restoring to 
reason (a greater restoration than to health) the woman, every 
faculty of whose soul ought in that case to be devoted to God 
and to him ! Methinks I have at present but one wish ; it is that 
I may live to see this lady, if she is to be the happy woman. . . . 

But you see Sir Charles has been indisposed. No wonder. 
Visited by the marquis and marchioness, you see. Not a slight 
illness, therefore, you may believe. God preserve him, and 
restore Lady Clementina, and the worthy Jeronymo ! 

His kind remembrance of me ! But, my dear, I think the 
doctor and you must forbear obliging me with any more of his 
letters. His goodness, his tenderness, his delicacy, his strict 
honor, but adds — Yet can any new instances add to a character 
so uniformly good ? But the chief reason of my self-denial, if 
you were to take me at my word as to these communications, 
is that his affecting descriptions and narratives of Lady Clem- 
entina's reveries (poor, poor lady !) will break my heart. Yet 
you must send them to your ever obliged 

Harriet Byron. 

Poor Harriet ! 

Lady G. went down to Selby House, taking the good 
Visit of Lady G. Dr. Bartlett with her, to be with Miss Byron, and if 
possible raise her spirits with her own lively ones. 
Hence comes this letter : 

Lady G. to Lady L. 

Selby House, Monday, July 24th, 
Lord bless me, my dear, what shall we do ! My brother in 
all probability by this time — But I cannot tell how to suppose 
it ! Ah, the poor Harriet ! The three letters from my brother. 



Richardson and Harriet Byron. 141 

which by the permission of Dr. Bartlett I enclose, will show 
you that the Italian affair is now at a crisis. 

The three letters are inserted here, and then, thirty 
pages on. Lady G. continues : 

Well, my dear sister ! and what did you say to the contents ? 
I wish I had been with you and Lord L. at the time you read News from 
them, that I might have mingled my tears with yours for the 
sweet Harriet ! Why would my brother despatch these letters, 
without staying till at least he could have informed us of the 
result of the next day's meeting with Clementina ? What was 
the opportunity that he had to send away those letters, which 
he must be assured would keep us in strange suspense ? Hang 
the opportunity that so officiously offered ! But perhaps, in the 
tenderness of his nature, he thought that this despatch was nec- 
essary to prepare us for what was to follow, lest, were he to 
acquaint us with the event as decided, our emotion would be 
too great to be supported. We sisters to go over to attend 
Lady Clementina Grandison a twelvemonth hence ! Ah \ 
the poor Harriet ! And will she give us leave ? But surely it 
must not, cannot be ! And yet — Hush ! hush ! hush, Charlotte, 
and proceed to facts. . . . 

These three letters she is referring to, from Sir 
Charles, narrate his arrival at Bologna and subsequent frdvai^at^^'® 
interviews with the Porretta family, and especially with bologna. 
Clementina, whose health was greatly improving, 
although when he first saw her "she was in her mother's 
arms on a couch, just come out of a fit, but not a strong 
one. ' ' The whole family were now prepared to surrender 
all their prejudices and render their conditions. The 
marquis, the marchioness, the bishop, the count, and 
Father Marescotti were all present at this interview at 
the palace. They entered and took their places. 

"My dear," said the marquis, referring to his lady. After Renewed offers 
some little hesitation, "We have no hope, sir," said she, "of ^/^|j^^°"^"^ 
our child's perfect restoration, but from — " she stopt, 

"Our compliance with every wish of her heart," said the 
bishop. 



142 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 



Desired con- 
version of Sir 
Charles. 



The conditions 
of the marriage. 



"Ay, do you proceed," said the marchioness to the prelate. 
''It would be to no purpose, chevalier," questioned the 
bishop, " to urge to you the topic so near to all our hearts? " 
I bowed assent to what he said. 
" I am sorry for it," replied the bishop. 
" I am very sorry for it," said the count. 

This referred, of course, to his own change of rehgion, 
and they all beset him again to shake his purpose. 

"You have the example of great princes, chevalier," said 
Father Marescotti, " Henry the Fourth ot" France, Augustus of 
Poland — ' ' 

"True, father. But great princes are not always, and in 
every action of their lives, great men." 

And so on, and so on, at great length, but they were 
already fully decided to surrender the point of Sir 
Charles's conversion to the Roman Catholic faith, on 
condition that he should never, by himself, or his English 
divines, attempt to pervert her ; should allow her a con- 
fessor, that confessor Father Marescotti, their residence 
to be in England after the first year, which his sisters 
should pass with them in Italy. The long conversation 
settled everything in detail, the education of the 
children, daughters allowed to be Roman Catholics, 
sons to adhere to the faith of their father. 

" All we have now to do," said the marquis, " is to gain his 
holiness 's permission [the pope]. That has not been refused in 
such cases, where either the sons or the daughters of the 
marriage are to be brought up Catholics." 

Such was the news in the three letters which Sir 
Charles sent off to Dr. Bartlett. He closes thus : 

To-morrow I am to drink chocolate with Lady Clementina. 
"We shall be left together perhaps, or only with her mother and 
Camilla. 

A long interval had to elapse before the waiting circle 
heard further news ; it came thus : 



Richardson and Harriet Byron. 143 

Sir Charles Grandison to Dr. Bartlett. 

Bologna, Saturday ev'g. 
I sit down now, my dear and reverend friend, to write you Surprising 
particulars which will surprise you. There is not on earth a "^^^• 
nobler woman than Clementina ! What at last — But I find I 
must have a quieter heart, and fingers, too, before I can proceed. 

He resumes later : 

I think I am a little less agitated than I was. The above few 
lines shall go, for they will express to you the emotions of my 
mind when I attempted to write an account of what had then so 
newly passed. 

What had newly passed was that Clementina, in the 
interview accorded, after showing great agitation at his 
addresses and the warmth of them, retired to a closet, 
putting a paper in his hand as she left him. 

This paper revealed her absolute determination never 
to unite herself to a heretic, even if it were the beloved resolve 
of her heart. Here is a part of it (translated by Dr. 
Bartlett) : 

"My tutor, my brother, my friend! oh, most beloved and 
best of men ! Seek me not in marriage ! I am unworthy of 
thee. Thy soul was ever most dear to Clementina. When- 
ever I meditated the gracefulness of thy person I restrained my 
eye, I checked my fancy ; and how ? Why, by meditating on 
the superior graces of thy mind. And is not that soul to be 
saved ? thought I. Dear, obstinate, and perverse ! And shall 
I bind my soul to a soul allied to perdition ? That so dearly 
loves that soul, as hardly to wish to be separated from it in its 
future lot. Oh, thou most amiable of men, how can I be sure 
that were I thine, thou wouldst not draw me after thee by love, 
by sweetness of manners, by condescending goodness ? I, who 
once thought a heretic the worst of beings, have been already 
led, by the amiableness of thy piety, to think more favorably of 
all heretics for thy sake ! 

" But dost thou indeed love me ? Or is it owing to thy gener- 



Clementina's 



144 -^^ ^'^^ Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 



Her determina- 
tion irrevocable. 



Grandmamma 
Siiirley sees a 
ghost. 



osity, thy compassion, thy nobleness for a creature, who, aim- 
ing to be great like thee, could not sustain the effort ? It is in 
thy power to hold me fast or to set me free. I know thou lovest 
Clementina ; it is her pride to think that thou dost. But she is 
not worthy of thee. Yet let thy heart own that thou lovest her 
soul. Thou art all magnanimity ; thou canst sustain the effort 
' which she was unequal to. Make some other woman happy ! 
But I cannot bear that it shall be an Italian. ... My 
brain wounded, my health impaired, can I expect a long life ? 
And shall I not endeavor to make the clo^e of it happy ? Let 
me be great, my chevalier ! " 

Every effort to change this determination was vain, and 
after repeated efforts and a (really) touching final inter- 
view with Clementina, Sir Charles departed for England. 

On Tuesday, September 5th, Lady G. writes : 
Congratulate us, my dearest Miss Byron, on the arrival of my 
brother. He came last night. It was late, and he sent to us 
this morning, and to others of his friends. My lord and I hur- 
ried away to breakfast with him. Ah, my dear ! we see too 
plainly that he has been very much disturbed in mind. He 
looks more wan, and is thinner than he was ; but he is the same 
kind brother, friend, and good man. 

And next from Selby House, Wednesday, September 
20th, comes this from Harriet : 

My Dearest Lady G. : Do you know what is become of 
your brother? My grandmamma Shirley has seen his ghost, 
and talked with it near an hour ; and then it vanished. Be not 
surprised, my dear creature. I am still in amaze at the account 
my grandmamma gives us of its appearance, discourse, and 
vanishing ! Nor was the dear parent in a reverie. It happened 
in the middle of the afternoon, all in broad day. 

Thus she tells it: "I was sitting," said she, "in my own 
drawing-room, yesterday, by myself, when in came James, to 
whom it first appeared, and told me that a gentleman desired 
to be introduced to me. I was reading ' Sherlock upon Death ' 
with that cheerfulness with which I always meditate the sub- 
ject. I gave orders for his admittance ; and in came, to 
appearance, one of the handsomest men I ever saw in my life, 
in a riding dress. It was a courteous ghost ; it saluted me, or 



Richardson and Harriet Byron. 145 



at least I thought it did ; for it answering to the description that 
you, my Harriet, had given me of that amiable man, I was 
surprised. But contrary to the manner of ghosts, it spoke first. 
'Venerable lady,' it called me, and said its name was Grandi- 
son, in a voice so like what I had heard you speak of his that 
I had no doubt but it was Sir Charles Grandison himself, and 
was ready to fall down to welcome him." 

The ghost left a great packet of letters for Harriet, ;["^hegh°^' 
refused refreshments, desired in a courtly manner an 
answer to what it had discoursed upon, made a pro- 
found reverence, and vanished. 

So now, through the length of two more volumes, 
everything flows smoothly, but not rapidly. Sir Charles's 
advances are made by parallels, beginning with the 
excellent grandparent. When he approaches the cita- 
del, it is with caution and great delicacy. This delicacy 
arose from the doubt whether Miss Byron would be 
willing, or should be permitted, to condone the previous 
preoccupation of his heart with another lady. And 
Harriet does not surrender without endless punctilio and 
reticence. He took her hand and was bowing upon it 
at page 65; on page 81 the real offer of marriage begins, The^^fiferof 
and extends to page 89, during which space he talks 
steadily but well. At this first pause she writes : 

Not well before, I was more than once in apprehension of 
fainting, as he talked, agreeable as was his talk, and engaging 
as was his manner. My grandmamma and aunt saw my com- 
plexion change (they had been silent throughout) at his par- 
ticular address to me in the last part of his speech. I held my 
handkerchief now to my eyes, and now as a cover to myself- 
felt varying cheek. 

In the most respectful and graceful manner he pressed a 
hand of each with his lips ; mine twice. I could not speak. 
My grandmamma and aunt, delighted, yet tears standing in 
their eyes, looked upon each other, and upon me ; each as ex- 
pecting the other to speak. But he was ready to continue : 
"I have, perhaps," said he with some emotion, "taken up too 



The offer 
accepted. 



The glorious 
wedding. 



146 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 

much of Miss Byron's attention in this my first personal decla- 
ration. I will now return to the company. We will for this 
evening postpone the important subject." 

At last, later on, the "man of men " gave Miss Byron 
an opportunity to accept him. He then, on one knee, 
taking" her passive hand between both his, and kissing it 
once, twice, thrice — "Repeat, dear and ever dear Miss 
Byron," and so on, and she took out her handkerchief. 

Endless delays, before she could be persuade to fix 
the day. 

" Why hesitates my love ? " 

" Do you think six weeks — " 

"Six ages, my dearest, dearest creature ! Six weeks ! For 
heaven's sake, madam — " 

He looked, he spoke impatience. 

On his leaving me to return to company below he presented 
me with four little boxes. "Accept, my beloved Miss Byron," 
said he, " of these trifles." 

"Very handsome jewels " they proved to be. 

The rest of the sixth volume is occupied with accounts 
infinitely detailed of the glorious wedding, all in letters 
to Lady G. , who was unavoidably absent. The seventh 
volume describes the happiness of Sir Charles and Lady 
Grandison, and a visit they received from Clementina 
and all the Porrettas. But the book really ends with 
the wedding. 

Joy, joy, joy, was wished the happy pair from every mouth. 
"See, my dear young ladies," said the happy and instructing 
Mrs. Shirley, "the reward of duty, virtue, and obedience." 



BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

Life and Correspondence of Samuel Richardson. Mrs. Bar- 
bauld. 

Mrs. Barbauld's Life in "English Poetesses," by Eric 
S. Robertson, M. A. 

Richardson's Complete Works (any edition). 



BOOK V. 
FIELDING. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

Next to Richardson among the novehsts of this 
period, the second place is given to Henry Fielding, 
called by Byron " the prose Homer of human nature." "The prose 

•' ■' ^ . . ,. Homer of 

In his personal character as well as m his literary career, human nature." 

in everything, indeed, but the power of his genius, he 

was the exact opposite of Richardson, though very 

nearly his contemporary. He lived from 1707 to 1754, 

while Richardson, who was born eight years earlier, 

died some years later. 

He was of noble birth, being a descendant of the 
illustrious house of Denbigh and son of General Field- 
ing. He was the second cousin of Lady Mary Wortley, a cousin of 
descended in the same degree from George, Earl of 
Desmond. He dedicated to her his first comedy of 
" Love in Several Masks" in 1727. She had a great 
regard for him ; pitied his misfortunes, excused his 
failings, and warmly admired his best writings, above 
all "Tom Jones,'' in her own copy of which she wrote 
Ne plus ultra. Nevertheless she frankly said she was 
' ' sorry he did not himself perceive that he had made 
Tom Jones a scoundrel." 

Early in life Fielding succeeded to a ruined inheri • 
tance, and betook himself to the stage, becoming a 
dramatic author and lively writer in the Covent Garden 
Journal. He produced a number of pieces, now 

147 



148 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 



Henry Field- 
ing's early 
struggle with 
fortune. 



"Joseph 

Andrews.' 



entirely forgotten, which show that his talent was in no 
way adapted to the theater. His career for some 
years was a continuous struggle with fortune and his 
own. extravagance. He married an excellent lady, 
whose picture he drew in his ' ' Amelia " ; he loved her 
' passionately and she returned his affection, but they led 
no happy life, for they were always poor and seldom in 
a state of quiet and safety on account of his debts. If 
he ever possessed any money, nothihg could keep him 
from squandering it at once and nothing induced him to 
think of to-morrow. Sometimes they were living in 
decent lodgings with tolerable comfort ; sometimes in a 
wretched garret without the necessaries of life, not to 
speak of sponging-houses and hiding-places where he 
was occasionally lying perdu. His elastic gaiety of 
spirits carried him through it all ; but meanwhile care 
and anxiety were preying upon her more delicate organ- 
ization, and undermining her health. She gradually 
declined, caught a fever, and died in his arms. Yet 
after the death of this charming woman he married her 
maid, a person of but few apparent attractions, but an 
excellent creature, devoted to her mistress and almost 
broken-hearted for her loss. Her conduct as his wife 
justified the act. 

In 1742, when he was thirty-five, he first struck the 
vein of humorous writing in which he is considered 
never to have had a rival, when he produced his first 
novel, "Joseph Andrews," which was in some sense 
intended as a parody or caricature, ridiculing the timid 
morality of Richardson's "Pamela," its shopkeeper 
tone, and generally ' ' good boy ' ' style ; ' ' Pamela ' ' 
was then in full blaze of success. Fielding's novel at 
once received the honor due to a great, original creation, 
and in a short time he produced the remarkable sa- 



Qualities of 



Fielding. 1 49 

tirical tale, "Jonathan Wild the Great." In 1749 he was 
appointed to the laborious, and then far from respect- 
able, post of a London police magistrate, and while thus 
employed composed "the finest, completest, and pro- 
foundest of his works, the incomparable ' Tom Jones. ' ' ' 
This was followed after a brief interval by ' ' Amelia. ' ' 
Ruined in health by hard work and dissipation, he 
sailed for Lisbon in 1754. After a short time he died in 
that city and was buried in the Protestant cemetery there. 
The qualities which distinguish Fielding's genius are 
accurate observation of character and an extraordinary Fielding's 

genius. 

power of deducing the actions and expl-essions of his 
personages from the elements of their nature, a constant 
sympathy with the vigorous unrestrained characters, in 
all ranks of society, but especially in the lowest, which 
he loved to delineate. In the construction of his plots 
he is masterly. That of ' ' Tom Jones ' ' is perhaps 
the finest example in fiction of a series, what might be 
called an avalanche, of events, probable yet surprising, 
each of which helps the ultimate catastrophe. He 
possessed an almost childish delight in fun and extrava- 
gantly ludicrous incident, combined with a philosophic 
closeness of analysis of character and an impressive 
tone of moral reflection, the latter often masked under a 
pleasant air of satire and irony. His novels breathe 
a sort of fresh open-air atmosphere, in strong contrast 
to the artificial style employed by Richardson. 

In ' ' Tom Jones " it is difficult to know what most to 
admire — the artful conduct of the plot, the immense qualities of 

1 , t- 1 1 ■ ^ "Tom Jones. 

variety, wit, and humor of the personages, the gaiety 
of the incidents, or the acute remarks which the author 
interspersed amongst the matter of the narration. The 
trouble is that, in spite of all that is here said, which I 
readily adduce as the best verdict of present criticism. 



1 50 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 

Fielding is so indecent in plot and language that it is 
A serious difficult to give any just idea of either without shocking 

ears polite. To give the plot and omit the chief details, 
to quote passages and draw the pen through half of 
every sentence, leaves but a mutilated example of his 
work. I shall try, however, to give some brilliant 
passages, even if it is necessary to leave their connection 
unexplained. It would be a pity to pass over the 
breezy, delightful narrative of Fielding, and his lightly- 
touched pictures of the life of his time, vivid as they 
are and broadly drawn. 

The introduction to the work, or bill of fare to the feast. 

An author oug<tit to consider himself, not as a gentleman who- 
gives a private or eleemosynary treat, but rather as one who 
keeps a pr^ ic ordinary, at which all persons are welcome for 
their mon^y. In the former case, it is well known that the en- 
tertainer provides what fare he pleases : and though this should 
An author , . ,.™ , ,1. ,1 1 <- 1 • 

a host. be very mdifferent, and utterly disagreeable to the taste of his- 

company, they must not find any (fault ; nay, on the contrary, 
good breeding forces them outwardly to approve and to com- 
mend whatever is set before them. Now the contrary of this 
happens to the master of an ordinary. Men who pay for what 
they eat will insist on gratifying their palates, however nice and 
even whimsical these may prove ; and if everything is not 
agreeable to their taste, will challenge a right to censure, ta 
abuse, and to d — n their dinner without control. 

To prevent, therefore, giving offense to their customers by 
any such disappointment, it hath been usual with the honest 
and well-meaning host to provide a bill of fare which all per- 
sons may peruse at their first entrance into the house, and 
> having thence acquainted themselves with the entertainment 
which they may expect, may either stay and regale with what is 
provided for them, or may depart to some ordinary better 
accommodated to their taste. 

As we do not disdain to borrow wit or wisdom from any man 
who is capable of lending us either, we have condescended ta 
take a hint from these honest victuallers, and shall prefix not 



Fielding. 151 

only a general bill of fare to our whole entertainment, but shall 
likewise give the reader particular bills to every course which 
is to be served up in this and the ensuing volumes. 

The provision, then, which we have here made is no other 
1:ha.n Human Nature. Nor do I fear that my sensible reader, the bill of fare, 
though most luxurious in his taste, will start, cavil, or be 
■offended, because I have named but one article. The tortoise 
— as the alderman of Bristol, well learned in eating, knows by 
much experience — besides the delicious calibash and calepee, 
contains many different kinds of food, nor can the learned 
reader be ignorant, that in human nature, though here collected 
under one general name, is such prodigious variety, that a cook 
will have sooner gone through all the several species of animal 
and vegetable food in the world, than an author will be able to 
exhaust so extensive a. subject. 

An objection may perhaps be apprehended from the more 
■delicate, that this dish is too common and vulgar ; for what else 
is the subject of all the romances, novels, plays, and poems 
with which the stalls abound ? Many exquisite via; > might be 
rejected by the epicure, if it was a sufficient cause for his con- 
temning of them as common and vulgar, that something was to 
be found in the most paltry, alleys under the same name. In 
reality, true nature is as difficult to be met with in authors as the 
Bayonne hare or Bologna sausage is to be found in the shops. 

But the whole, to continue the same metaphor, consists in the 
■cookery of the author ; for, as Mr. Pope tells us, 

True wit is nature to advantage drest ; 

What oft was thought, but ne'er so well exprest. 

The same animal which hath the honor to have some part of 

his flesh eaten at the table of a duke may perhaps be degraded 

in another part, and some of his limbs gibbeted, as it were, in 

the vilest stall in town. Where, then, lies the difTerence 

between the food of the nobleman and the porter, if both are 

at dinner on the same ox or calf, but in the seasoning, the 

•dressing, the garnishing, and the setting forth ? Hence the one 

provokes and incites the most languid appetite, and the other 

turns and palls that which is the sharpest and keenest. 

In like manner, the excellence of the mental entertainment The author's 

skiII in prc~ 

consists less in the subject than in the author's skill in well paring it. 
xiressing it up. How pleased, therefore, will the reader be to 



152 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 

find that we have, in the following work, adhered closely to 
one of the highest principles of the best cook which the present 
age, or perhaps that of Heliogabalus, hath produced. This 
great man, as is well known to all polite lovers of eating, 
begins at first by setting plain things before his hungry guests, 
rising afterward by degrees as their stomachs may be supposed 
to decrease, to the very quintessence of sauce and spices. In 
like manner, we shall represent human nature at first to the 
keen appetite of our reader, in that more plain and simple 
manner in which it is found in the country, and shall hereafter 
hash and ragoo it with all the high French' and Italian season- 
ing of affectation and vice which courts and cities afford. By 
these means, we doubt not but our reader may be rendered 
desirous to read on forever, as the great person just above- 
mentioned is supposed to have made some persons eat. 

Having premised thus much, we will now detain those who 
like our bill of fare no longer from their diet, and shall proceed 
directly to serve up the first course of our history for their 
entertainmc it. 

Tom Tones, the foundling, was adopted in the kindli- 

ililcXlll_^ \Jl. X Uill 

Jones. est manner by the excellent Mr. Allworthy, with a good 

heart and no family, who found the child in his bed one 
evening on returning from a long absence and decided 
to adopt the boy as his own. 

The reader's neck brought into danger by a description ; his 
escape ; and the great condescension of Miss Bridget All- 
worthy. 

The Gothic style of building could produce nothing nobler 

Description of than Mr. Allworthy's house. There was an air of grandeur in 

^[at^I'"^""^^'^ it that struck you with awe, and rivaled the beauties of the best 

Grecian architecture ; and it was as commodious within as 

. venerable without. 

It stood on the southeast side of a hill, but nearer the bottom 
than the top of it, so as to be sheltered from the northeast by a 
grove of old oaks which arose above it in a gradual ascent of 
near half a mile, and yet high enough to enjoy a most charming 
prospect of the valley beneath. 

In the midst of the grove was a fine lawn, sloping down 



Infancy of Tom 



Fielding. 153 

toward the house, near the summit of which rose a plentiful 
spring, gushing out of a rock covered with firs, and forming a 
constant cascade of about thirty feet, not carried down a regular 
flight of steps, but tumbling in a natural fall over the broken 
and mossy stones till it came to the bottom of the rock, then scenery, 
running off in a pebbly channel, that with many lesser falls 
winded along, till it fell into a lake at the foot of the hill, about 
a quarter of a mile below the house on the south side, and 
which was seen from every room in the front. Out of this lake, 
which filled the center of a beautiful plain, embellished with 
groups of beeches and elms, and fed with sheep, issued a river, 
that for several miles was seen to meander through an amazing 
variety of meadows and woods till it emptied itself into the sea, 
with a large arm of which, and an island beyond it, the prospect 
was closed. 

On the right of this valley opened another of less extent, 
adorned with several villages, and terminated by one of the . 
towers of an old ruined abbey, grown over with ivy, and part of 
the front, which remained still entire. 

The left-hand scene presented the view of a very fine park, 
composed of very unequal ground, and agreeably varied with 
all the diversity that hills, lawns, wood, and water, laid out with 
admirable taste, but owing less to art than to nature, could give. 
Beyond this, the country gradually rose into a ridge of wild 
mountains, the tops of which were above the clouds. . . . 

It was now the middle of May, and the morning was remark- 
ably serene, when Mr. Allworthy walked forth on the terrace, Mr. Allworthy 

, , ' , . , , , . walks forth, 

where the dawn opened every mmute that lovely prospect we 

have before described to his eye ; and now having sent forth 
streams of light, which ascended the blue firmament before him, 
as harbingers preceding his pomp, in the full blaze of his 
majesty rose the sun, than which one object alone in this lower 
creation could be more glorious, and that Mr. Allworthy him- 
self presented — a human being replete with benevolence, medi- 
tating in what manner he might render himself most acceptable 
to his Creator, by doing most good to his creatures. 

Reader, take care. I have unadvisedly led thee to the top of 
as high a hill as Mr. AUworthy's, and how to get thee down 
without breaking thy neck, I do not well know. However, let 
us e'en venture to slide down together ; for Miss Bridget rings 
her bell, and Mr. Allworthy is summoned to breakfast, where I 



154 ^^'^ ^'^d Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 

must attend, and, if you please, shall be glad of your company. 
The usual compliments having passed between Mr. AUworthy 
and Miss Bridget, and the tea being poured out, he told his 
sister he had a present for her, for which she thanked him — 
imagining, I suppose, it had been a gown, or some ornament 
for her person. Indeed, he very often made her such presents ; 
,and she, in complacence to him, spent much time in adorning 
herself. I say in complacence to him, because she always 
expressed the greatest contempt for dress, and for those ladies 
who made it their study. 

Miss Bridget AUworthy was the sister of the master of 
Miss AUworthy the house, who lived with him. She was not altogether 
a op s om. pleased when she discovered the nature of the present 
referred to ; however, having looked at the child ear- 
nestly as it lay asleep she could not forbear giving it a 
hearty kiss, at the same time declaring herself wonder- 
fully pleased with it. 

About this time Miss AUworthy was married herself, 
and had a son, who was brought up in Mr. All- 
worthy's house along with "Tom." His name was 
Master Blifil and they were always quarreling. 

The hero of this great history appears with very bad omens. A 
little tale of so low a kind that some may think it not worth 
their notice. A word or two concerning a squire, and more 
relating to a gamekeeper and a schoolmaster. 

As we determined, when we first sat down to write this his- 
tory, to flatter no man, but to guide our pen throughout by the 
directions of truth, we are obliged to bring our hero on the 
stage in a much more disadvantageous manner than we could 
wish ; and to declare honestly, even at his first appearance, that 
_ it was the universal opinion of all Mr. AUworthy's family that 
he was certainly born to be hanged. 
Indeed, I am sorry to say there was too much reason for this 
His early Conjecture ; the lad having from his earliest years discovered a 

propensities. propensity to many vices, and especially to one which hath as 
direct a tendency as any other to that fate which we have just 
now observed to have been prophetically denounced against 



Fielding. 



155 



him ; he had been already convicted of three robberies, viz. : of 
robbing an orchard, of steaHng a duck out of a farmer's yard, 
and of picking Master BUfil's pocket of a ball. 

The vices of this young man were, moreover, heightened by 
the disadvantageous light in which they appeared when opposed Master Blifil. 
to the virtues of Master Blifil, his companion ; a youth of so 
different a cast from little Jones that not only the family but all 
the neighborhood resounded his praises. He was, indeed, a 
lad of remarkable disposition ; sober, discreet, and pious beyond 
his age ; qualities which gained him the love of every one who 
knew him ; while Tom Jones was universally disliked ; and 
many expressed their wonder that Mr. Allworthy would sufTer 
such a lad to be educated with his nephew, lest the morals of 
the latter should be corrupted by his example. 

An incident which happened about this time will set the char- 
acters of these two lads more fairly before the discerning reader 
than is in the power of the longest dissertation. 
' Tom Jones, who, bad as he is, must serve for the hero of this 
history, had only one friend among all the servants of the family. 
This friend was the gamekeeper, a fellow of a loose kind of 
disposition and who was thought not to entertain much stricter 
notions concerning the difference of meum and tuum than the 
young gentleman himself, and hence this friendship gave 
occasion to many sarcastical remarks among the domestics, 
most of which were either proverbs before, or at least had be- 
come so now : and indeed the wit of them all may be com- 
prised in that short Latin proverb, Noscitur a socio ; which, I 
think, is thus expressed in English : "You may know him by 
the company he keeps." 

Contiguous to Mr. Allworthy's estate was the manor of one 
of these gentlemen who are called preservers of the game, the game. 
This species of men, from the great severity with which they 
revenge the death of a hare or partridge, might be thought to 
cultivate the same superstitions with the Bannians in India, 
many of whom we are told dedicate their whole lives to the 
preservation and protection of certain animals ; was it not that 
our English Bannians while they preserve them from other 
enemies will most unmercifully slaughter whole horse-loads 
themselves ; so that they stand clearly acquitted of any such 
heathenish superstition. 

Now, as Horace tells us that there are a set of human beings 



156 Men a?id Manners 0/ the Eighteenth Centiay. 



Tom goes out 
with the game- 
keeper. 



Discovered 
with a 
partridge. 



Fruges consumere iiati, 
"Born to consume the fruits of the earth"; so I make no 
manner of doubt but that there are others 

Feras consumere naii, 
" Born to consume the beasts of the field " ; or, as it is com- 
monly called, the game ; and none, I believe, will deny but 
that those squires fulfil this end of their creation. 

Little Jones went one day a shooting with the gamekeeper ; 
when happening to spring a covey of partridges near the border 
of that manor over which fortune, to fulfil, the wise purposes of 
nature, had planted one of the game consumers, the birds flew 
into it, and were marked (as it is called) by the two sportsmen, 
in some furze bushes, about two or three hundred paces 
beyond Mr. AUworthy's dominions. 

Mr. AUworthy had given the fellow strict orders, on pain of 
forfeiting his place, never to trespass on any of his neighbors ; 
no more on those who were less rigid in this matter than on 
the lord of this manor. With regard to others, indeed, these 
orders had not been always very scrupulously kept ; but as the 
disposition of the gentleman with whom the partridges had 
taken sanctuary was well known, the gamekeeper had never 
yet attempted to invade his territories. Nor had he done it 
now, had not the younger sportsman, who was excessively 
eager to pursue the flying game, over-persuaded him ; but 
Jones being very importunate, the other, who was himself keen 
enough after the sport, yielded to his persuasions, entered the 
manor, and shot one of the partridges. 

The gentleman himself was at that time on horseback, at a 
little distance from them ; and hearing the gun go off, he 
immediately made toward the place, and discovered poor 
Tom ; for the gamekeeper had leapt into the thickest part of 
the furze-brake, where he had happily concealed himself. 

The gentleman having searched the lad, and found the 
partridge upon him, denounced great vengeance, swearing he 
would acquaint Mr. AUworthy. He was as good as his word ; 
for he rode immediately to his house, and complained of the 
trespass on his manor in as high terms and as bitter language 
as if his house had been broken open and the most valuable 
furniture stole out of it. He added that some other person 
was in his company, though he could not discover him ; for 



Fielding. 



157 



that two guns had been discharged almost in the same instant. 
And, says he, "We have found only this partridge, but the 
Lord knows what mischief they have done." 

At his return home Tom was presently convened before Mr. 
Allworthy. He owned the fact, and alleged no other excuse 
but what was really true, viz., that the covey was originally 
sprung in Mr. Allworthy's own manor. 

Tom was then interrogated who was with him, which Mr. 
Allworthy declared he was resolved to know, acquainting the betray his 
culprit with the circumstance of the two guns, which had been companion, 
deposed by the squire and both his servants ; but Tom stoutly 
persisted in asserting that he was alone ; yet, to say the truth, 
he hesitated a little at first, which would have confirmed Mr. 
Allworthy's belief had what the squire and his servants said 
wanted any further confirmation. 

The gamekeeper, being a suspected person, was now sent 
for, and the question put to him ; but he, relying on the prom- 
ise which Tom had made him, to take all upon himself, very 
resolutely denied being in company with the young gentleman, 
or indeed having seen him the whole afternoon. 

Mr. Allworthy then turned toward Tom, with more than 
usual anger in his countenance, and advised him to confess who 
was with him ; repeating that he was resolved to know. The 
lad, however, still maintained his resolution, and was dismissed 
with much wrath by Mr. Allworthy, who told him he should 
have to the next morning to consider of it, when he should be 
questioned by another person and in another manner. 

Poor Jones spent a very melancholy night ; and the more so 
as he was without his usual companion ; for Master BUfil was 
gone abroad on a visit with his mother. Fear of the punish- 
ment he was to suffer was on this occasion his least evil ; his 
chief anxiety being lest his constancy should fail him, and he 
should be brought to betray the gamekeeper, whose ruin he 
knew must now be the consequence. 

Nor did the gamekeeper pass the time much better. He had 
the same apprehensions with the youth for whose humor he 
had likewise a much tenderer regard than for his skin. 

In the morning when Tom attended the reverend Mr. 

Thwackum, the person to whom Mr. Allworthy had committed ^,. 

. K. , , 1,1, • His punish- 

the mstruction of the two boys, he had the same questions put ment. 

to him by that gentleman which he had been asked the evening 



158 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 

before, to which he returned the same answer. The conse- 
quence was a severe whipping, which lie bore with great reso- 
lution, rather than betray his friend or break the promise he 
had made. 

The gamekeeper was now relieved from his anxiety, and Mr. 
All worthy himself began to be concerned at Tom's sufferings ; 
now as cruelty and injustice were two ideas of which Mr. 
Allworthy could by no means support the consciousness a 
single moment he sent for Tom and said: "I am convinced, 
my dear child, that my suspicions have wronged you, I am 
kindness?'^ ^^ sorry you have been so severely punished on this account." 
And at last gave him a little horse to make him amends. 

Tom's guilt now flew in his face more than any severity could 
make it. The tears burst from his eyes, and he fell on his 
knees, crying, " Oh, sir, you are too good to me. Indeed you 
are. Indeed, I don't deserve it." And at that very instant, 
from the fulness of his heart, had almost betrayed the secret ; 
but the good genius of the gamekeeper suggested to him what 
might be the consequence to the poor fellow, and this consider- 
ation sealed his lips. 

Thwackum did all he could to persuade Allworthy from 
showing any compassion or kindness to the boy, saying, " He 
had persisted in an untruth"; and gave some hints that a 
second whipping might probably bring the matter to light. 

But Mr. Allworthy absolutely refused to consent to the 
experiment. He said the boy had suffered enough already for 
concealing the truth, even if he was guilty, seeing that he could 
have no motive but a mistaken point of honor for so doing. 

"Honor!" cried Thwackum with some wrath, "mere stub- 
bornness and obstinacy ! Can honor teach any one to tell a lie, 
or can any honor exist independent of religion ? " 

A childish incident, tn which, however, is seen a good-natured 

disposition in Tom Jones. 

The reader may remember that Mr. Allworthy gave Tom 
Jones a little horse, as a kind of smart-money for the punish- 
ment which he imagined he had suffered innocently. 

This horse Tom kept above half a year, and then rode him 
The horse sold, to a neighboring fair and sold him. On his return, being ques- 
tioned by Thwackum what he had done with the money for 
which the horse was sold, he frankly declared he would not tell 



Fielding. 



159 



Tom repri- 
manded. 



him. Mr. Allworthy, entering the room, took him with him 
into another apartment ; where, being himself only present 
with Tom, he put the same question to him which Thwackum 
had before asked him. 

Tom answered, he could in duty refuse him nothing ; but as 
for that tyrannical rascal, he would never make him any other 
answer than with a cudgel, with which he hoped soon to be 
able to pay him for all his barbarities. 

Mr. Allworthy very severely reprimanded the lad for his 
indecent and disrespectful expressions concerning his master ; 
but much more for his avowing an intention of revenge. He 
threatened him with the entire loss of his favor if he ever heard 
such another word from his mouth ; for, he said, he would 
never support or befriend a reprobate. By these and the like 
declarations, he extorted some compunction from Tom, in 
which that youth was not over-sincere ; for he really meditated 
some return for all the smarting favors he had received at the 
hands of the pedagogue. He was, however, brought by Mr. 
Allworthy to express a concern for his resentment against 
Thwackum ; and then the good man, after some wholesome 
admonition, permitted him to proceed, which he did as follows : 

"Indeed, my dear sir, I love and honor you more than all 
the world : I know the great obligations I have to you, and His defense, 
should detest myself if I thought my heart was capable of 
ingratitude. Could the little horse you gave me speak, I am 
sure he could tell you how fond I was of your present ; for I 
had more pleasure in feeding him than in riding him. Indeed, 
sir, it went to my heart to part with him ; nor would I have sold 
him upon any other account in the world than what I did. You 
yourself, sir, I am convinced, in my case, would have done the 
same ; for none ever so sensibly felt the misfortunes of others. 
What would you feel, dear sir, if you thought yourself the 
occasion of them ? Indeed, sir, there never was any misery 
like theirs." 

"Like whose, child?" says Allworthy. "What do you 
mean?" 

" Oh, sir ! " answered Tom, " your poor gamekeeper, with all 
his large family, ever since your discarding him, have been 
perishing with all the miseries of cold and hunger : I could not 
bear to see these poor wretches naked and starving, and at the 
same time know myself to have been the occasion of all their 



i6o Men and Manne7's of the Eighteenth Century. 

sufferings. I could not bear it, sir ; upon my soul, I could not." 
Cause of his Here the tears ran down his cheeks, and he thus proceeded, 
sacrifice. <i j|. ^^g ^q g^^g them from absolute destruction I parted with 

your dear present, notwithstanding all the value I had for it : I 
sold the horse for them, and they have every farthing of the 
money." 

Mr. AUworthy now stood silent for some moments, and 
before he spoke the tears started from his eyes. He at length 
dismissed Tom with a gentle rebuke, advising him for the 
future to apply to him in cases of distress, jather than to use 
extraordinary means of relieving them himself. 

We must now leave Tom to grow up, his character 
being sufficiently foreshadowed by these childish events 
for the reader to understand what kind of a hero he is to 
make, easily enlisting the sympathy of people who love 
an honest, happy-go-lucky boy. Master Blifil, as may 
be supposed, by the artistic need of contrast, is drawn 
as a youth of every opposite quality to those of Tom. 

A short hint of what we ca7i do in the subtime, and a description 
of Miss Sopliia Western. 

Hushed be every ruder breath. May the heathen ruler of the 
winds confine in iron chains the boisterous limbs of noisy 
Boreas and the sharp-pointed nose of bitter-biting Eurus. Do 
thou, sweet Zephyrus, rising from thy fragrant bed, mount the 
western sky, and lead on those delicious gales, the charms of 
which call forth the lovely Flora from her chamber, perfumed 
with pearly dews, when on the ist of June, her birthday, the 
blooming maid, in loose attire, gently trips it over the verdant 
mIss Sophia° mead, where every flower rises to do her homage, till the whole 
Western. f^gl(j becomes enamelled, and colors contend with sweets which 

shall ravish her most. 

So charming may she now appear ! and you the feathered 
choristers of nature, whose sweetest notes not even Handel can 
excel, tune your melodious throats to celebrate her appearance. 
From love proceeds your music, and to love it returns. Awaken 
therefore that gentle passion in every swain : for lo ! adorned 
with all the charms in which nature can array her ; bedecked 
with beauty, youth, sprightliness, innocence, modesty, and 



Fielding. i6i 

tenderness, breathing sweetness from her rosy lips, and 

darting brightness from her sparkHng eyes, the lovely Sophia 

comes ! 

Reader, perhaps thou hast seen the statue of the Venus de 

Medicis. Perhaps, too, thou hast seen the gallery of beauties 

at Hampton Court. Thou may'st remember each bright 

Churchill of the galaxy, and all the toasts of the Kit-cat. Or, if Toasts of the 

• Kit-cat 

their reign was before thy times, at least thou hast seen their 

daughters, the no less dazzling beauties of the present age ; 

whose names, should we here insert, we apprehend they would 

fill the whole volume. 

Now if thou hast seen all these without knowing what beauty 
is, thou hast no eyes ; if without feeling its power, thou hast 
no heart. 

Yet it is possible, my friend, that thou mayest have seen all 
these without being able to form an exact idea of Sophia, for 
she did not exactly resemble any of them. She was most like 
the picture of Lady Ranelegh ; and, I have heard, more still to 
the famous Duchess of Mazarine ; but most of all she resembled 
one whose image can never depart from my breast, and whom, 
if thou dost remember thou hast then, my friend, an adequate 
idea of Sophia. 

Sophia, then, the only daughter of Mr. Western, was a middle 
sized woman, but rather inclining to tall. Her hair, which was 
black, was so luxuriant that it reached her middle, before she cut 
it to comply with the modern fashion. Her eyebrows were full, 
even and arched beyond the power of art to imitate. Her black 
eyes had a luster in them which all her softness could not extin- 
guish. Her nose was exactly regular, and her mouth, in which 
vi'ere two rows of ivory, exactly answered Sir John Suckling's Sir John ^ 
description in these lines : descriptfon. 

Her lips were red, and one was thin, 

Compar'd to that was next her chin, 

(Some bee had stung it newly). 

Her cheeks were of the oval kind ; and in her right she had a 
dimple which the least smile discovered. Her chin had cer- 
tainly its share in forming the beauty of her face, but it was diffi- 
cult to say whether it was either large or small, though perhaps 
it was rather of the former kind. Her complexion had rather 
more of the lily than of the rose ; but when exercise or modesty 



1 62 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Centnry. 

increased her natural color, no vermilion could equal it. Then 
one might indeed cry out with the celebrated Dr. Donne : 
Her pure and eloquent blood 
Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought, 
That one might almost say her body thought. 
Such was the outside of Sophia ; nor was this beautiful frame 
The mind of disgraced by an inhabitant unworthy of it. Her mind was every 
Sophia. way equal to her person ; nay, the latter borrowed some charms 

from the former ; for when she smiled, the sweetness of her 
temper diffused that glory over her countenance which no regu- 
larity of features can give. But as there are no perfections of 
the mind which do not discover themselves in that perfect inti- 
macy to which we intend to introduce our reader with this 
charming young creature, so it is needless to mention them 
here : nay, it is a kind of tacit affront to our reader's under- 
standing, and may also rob him of that pleasure which he will 
receive in forming his own judgment of her character. 

It may, however, be proper to say, that whatever mental 
accomplishments she had derived from nature, they were some- 
what improved and cultivated by art : for she had been edu- 
cated under the care of an aunt, who was a lady of great dis- 
cretion, and was thoroughly acquainted with the world, having 
lived in her youth about the court, whence she had retired some 
years since into the country. By her conversation and instruc- 
tions, Sophia was perfectly well bred, though perhaps she 
wanted a little of that ease in her behavior which is to be 
acquired only by habit, and living within what is called the 
polite circle. 

Wherein the history goes back to commemorate a trijlhtg inci- 
dent that happened some years since ; but which, trifling as it 
was, had some future consequences. 

The amiable Sophia was now in her eighteenth year, when 

dent thaf *"'^'" ' ^^^ ^^ introduced into this history. Her father, as hath been 

happened some said, was fonder of her than any other human creature. To 

her, therefore, Tom Jones applied, in order to engage her 

interest on the behalf of his friend, the gamekeeper. 

But before we proceed to this business, a short recapitulation 
of some previous matters may be necessary. 
Though the different tempers of Mr. Allworthy and of Mr. 



Fieldi7ig. 



163 



Western did not admit of a very intimate correspondence, yet 
they lived upon whiat is called a decent footing together ; by 
which means the young people of both families had been 
acquainted from their infancy ; and as they were all near of 
the same age, had been frequent playmates together. 

The gaiety of Tom's temper suited better with Sophia than 
the grave and sober disposition of Master Blifil. And the 
preference which she gave the former of these would often 
appear so plainly that a lad of a more passionate turn than Mas- 
ter Blifil was might have shown some displeasure at it. 

As he did not, however, outwardly express any such disgust, 
it would be an ill office in us to pay a visit to the inmost 
recesses of his mind, as some scandalous people search into the 
most secret affairs of their friends, and often pry into their 
closets and cupboards, only to discover their poverty and mean- 
ness to the world. 

However, as persons who suspect they have given others 
cause of offense are apt to conclude they are offended, so Sophia 
imputed an action of Master Blifil to his anger, which the supe- 
rior sagacity of Thwackum discerned to have arisen from a 
much better principle. 

Tom Jones when very young had presented Sophia with a 
little bird which he had taken from the nest, had nursed up and 
taught to sing. 

Of this bird, Sophia, then about thirteen years old, was so 
extremely fond that her chief business was to feed and tend it, 
and her chief pleasure to play with it. 

By these means little Tommy, for so the bird was called, was 
become so tame that it would feed out of her hand, but she 
always kept a small string about its leg. 

One day Mr. Blifil observing the extreme fondness that she 
showed for her little bird desired her to trust it for a moment in 
his hand. Sophia presently complied with the request and 
delivered him her bird, of which he was no sooner in pos- 
session than he slipt the string from its leg and tossed it into 
the air. 

Sophia seeing her bird gone screamed out so loud that Tom 
Jones, who was at a little distance, immediately ran to her 
assistance, and stripping off his coat, applied himself to climb- 
ing the tree to which the bird escaped. He had almost recov- 
ered his little namesake when the branch on which it was 



Tom and 
Master Blifil. 



The little bird. 



Its escape. 



164 Meji and Manniys. of the Eighteenth Centiuy. 

li . 

perched and that hung over a. canal broke, and the poor lad 
plumped over head and ears in the water. 

Sophia screamed ten times louder than before and indeed 
Mr. Blifil himself now seconded her with all the vociferation in 
his power. 

The company, who were sitting in a rodm next the garden, 
were instantly alarmed, and came all forth ; but just as they 
reached the canal, Tom (for the water was luckily pretty shal- 
low in that part) arrived safely on shore. 

Thwackum fell violently on poor Tom, ^ho stood dropping 
and shivering before him, when Mr. Allworthy desired him to 
have patience ; and turning to Master Blifil, said, " Pray, child, 
what is the reason of all this disturbance ? " 
Blifil's explana- Master Blifil answered, "Indeed, uncle, I am very sorry for 
tion. what I have done ; I have been unhappily the occasion of it all. 

I had Miss Sophia's bird in my hand, and thinking the poor 
creature languished for liberty, I own I could not forbear giving 
it what it desired ; for I always thought there was something 
very cruel in confining anything. It seemed to be against the 
law of nature, by which everything hath a right to liberty ; 
nay, it is even unchristian, for it is not doing what we would be 
done by : but if I had imagined Miss Sophia would have been 
so much concerned at it, I am sure I never would have done 
it ; nay, if I had known what would have happened to the bird 
itself : for when Master Jones, who climbed up that tree after 
it, fell into the water, the bird took a second flight, and 
presently a nasty hawk carried it away." 

Poor Sophia, who now first heard of her little Tommy's fate 
(for her concern for Jones had prevented her perceiving it when 
Sophia's it happened), shed a shower of tears. These Mr. Allworthy 

endeavored to assuage, promising her a much finer bird : but 
she declared she would never have another. Her father chid 
her for crying so for a foolish bird ; but could not help telling 
young Blifil, if he was a son of his, he should be well punished. 
Sophia now returned to her chamber, the two young gentle- 
men were sent home, and the rest of the company returned to 
their bottle. 

Since the adventure of the bird, Sophia had been 
absent upward of three years with her aunt, during 
which she had seen neither of these young gentlemen. 



sorrow. 



Fielding. 



165 



Tom distin- 
guished from 
the mere 
country squire. 



The young lady was now returned to her father ; who gave 
her the command of his house, and placed her at the upper end 
of his table, where Tom (who for his great love of hunting was 
become a great favorite of the squire) often dined. Young 
men of open, generous dispositions are naturally inclined to 
gallantry, which, if they have good understandings, as was in 
reality Tom's case, exerts itself in an obliging complacent 
behavior to all women in general. This greatly distinguished 
Tom from the boisterous brutality of mere country squires 
on the one hand, and from the solemn and somewhat sullen 
deportment of Master Blifil on the other ; and he began now, 
at twenty, to have the name of a pretty fellow among all the 
women in the neighborhood. 

Tom behaved to Sophia with no particularity, unless perhaps 
by showing her a higher respect than he paid to any other ; a 
distinction her beauty, fortune, sense, and amiable carriage 
seemed to demand. 

Sophia, with the highest degree of innocence and modesty, 
had a remarkable sprightliness in her temper. This was so 
greatly increased whenever she was in company with Tom, that 
had he not been very young and thoughtless, he must have 
observed it ; or had not Mr. Western's thoughts been generally 
either in the field, the stable, or the dog-kennel, it might have 
perhaps created some jealousy in him ; but so far was the 
good gentleman from entertaining any such suspicions that he 
gave Tom every opportunity with his daughter which any lover 
could have wished ; and this Tom innocently improved to 
better advantage, by following only the dictates of his natural 
gallantry and good-nature than he might perhaps have done 
had he had the deepest designs on the young lady. 

But indeed it can occasion little wonder that this matter 
escaped the observation of others, since poor Sophia herself 
never remarked it ; and her heart was irretrievably lost before 
she suspected it was in danger. 

Matters were in this situation when Tom one after- 
noon finding Sophia alone began, after a short apology, 
to acquaint her that he had a favor to ask of her. 

At this her color forsook her cheeks, her limbs trembled, and He asks a 
her tongue would have faltered, had Tom stopped for an f^^o'^- 



1 66 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 



Mr. Western's 
custom. 



Sophia uses 
diplomacy. 



answer ; but he soon relieved her by proceeding to inform her 
of his request, which was to sohcit her interests on behalf of 
the gamekeeper, whose own ruin and that of a large family- 
must be, he said, the consequence of Mr. Western's pursuing 
his action against him. 

Sophia presently recovered her composure, and with a smile 
-full of sweetness said, " Is this the mighty favor you asked 
with so much gravity ? I will do it with all my heart. I really 
pity the poor fellow, and no longer ago than yesterday sent a 
small matter to his wife." Our youth, now emboldened with 
his success, resolved to push the matter farther, and ventured 
to beg her recommendation of him to her father's service. 

Sophia answered: "Well, I will undertake this too, but I can- 
not promise you as much success as in the former part, which I 
assure you I will not quit my father without obtaining." 

It was Mr. Western's custom every afternoon, as soon as he 
was drunk, to hear his daughter play on the harpsichord ; for 
he was a great lover of music, and perhaps, had he lived in 
town, might have passed for a connoisseur ; for he always 
excepted against the finest compositions of Mr. Handel. He 
never relished any music but what was light and airy ; and 
indeed his most favorite tunes were " Old Sir Simon the King," 
"St. George he was for England," " Bobbing Joan," and some 
others. 

His daughter, though she was a perfect mistress of music, 
and would never willingly have played any but Handel's, was 
so devoted to her father's pleasure that she learnt all those 
tunes to oblige him. However, she would now and then 
endeavor to lead him into her own taste ; and when he required 
the repetition of his ballads, would answer with a " Nay, dear 
sir," and would often beg him to suffer her to play something 
else. 

This evening, however, when the gentleman was retired from 
his bottle, she played all his favorites three times over without 
any solicitation. This so pleased the good squire that he 
started from his couch, gave his daughter a kiss, and swore her 
hand was greatly improved. She took this opportunity to 
execute her promise to Tom ; in which she succeeded so well 
that the squire declared, if she would give him t'other bout of 
* ' Old Sir Simon, ' ' he would give the gamekeeper his deputation 
the next morning. ' ' Sir Simon ' ' was played again and again, till 



Fielding. 167 

the charms of the music soothed Mr. Western to sleep. In the 
morning Sophia did not fail to remind him of his engagement ; The 
and his attorney was immediately sent for, ordered to stop any forgf^n^^^*^ 
further proceedings in the action, and to make out the deputa- 
tion. 

I have given so much space to the early love affairs of 
Tom and Sophia, because it is really the most simple 
and charming part of the book. 



CHAPTER XV. 



Tom Jones 
turned out of 
doors. 



Sophia 
traveling on 
horseback. 



Tom's delinquencies and misdemeanors came to such 
a pass that he was turned out of doors, a result that 
would not have been reached but for the ill-will of 
Master Blifil and his mother, who were determined to 
get rid of him, and so misrepresented his conduct to Mr. 
Allworthy as to put everything in its worst light. That 
good gentleman gave Tom a well-filled pocket-book 
(which Tom immediately lost) and parted with him with 
honest regret. 

Now begins a series of wonderful adventures, in the 
line of those of Don Quixote and Gil Bias, with the differ- 
ence that they are described with an air of great fresh- 
ness, and the events are all "up to date, ' ' to use a 
modern expression. Tom fell in with Partridge, the 
butt of the book, and they traveled together, stopping 
at bad inns and good inns, out of pocket, falling off 
horses, meeting villains and fine ladies, and entertaining 
angels unawares. 

Meanwhile Sophia, being urged, and threatened by 
force to marry Blifil, ran away from her father's house, 
accompanied by her maid Honour. These were therefore 
traveling round the country on horseback, meeting all 
sorts of adventures and falling into much ill-luck. Jones 
was constantly upon their tracks, but never coming up 
with them, although he knew they were on the road, 
and shaped his otherwise inexplicable course in the 
intent of following them. The picture we get of the 
difficulties of traveling in those days is not exaggerated, 



Fielding. 



169 



for no doubt the dangers of a real journey were as great 
as theirs. 



The disasters which befel Tom Jones on his departure for 
Coventry ; with the sage remarks of Partridge. 

No road can be plainer than that from the place where they 
now were to Coventry ; and though neither Jones, nor Part- 
ridge, nor the guide, had ever traveled it before, it would seem 
almost impossible for them to miss their way. 

Circumstances, however, happening unfortunately to inter- 
vene, our travelers deviated into a much less frequented track ; 
and after riding full six miles, instead of arriving at the stately 
spires of Coventry they found themselves still in a very dirty 
lane, where they saw no symptoms of approaching the suburbs 
of a large city. 

Jones now declared that they must certainly have lost their 
way ; but this the guide insisted upon was impossible ; a word 
which, in common conversation, is often used to signify not 
only improbable, but often what is really very likely, and, 
sometimes, what hath certainly happened ; an hyperbolical 
violence like that which is so frequently offered to the words 
infinite and eternal ; by the former of which it is usual to 
express a distance of half a yard, and by the latter, a duration 
of five minutes. And thus it is as usual to assert the impossi- 
bility of losing what is already actually lost. This was, in fact, 
the case at present ; for, notwithstanding all the confident 
assertions of the lad to the contrary, it is certain they were no 
more in the right road to Coventry than the fraudulent, griping, 
cruel, canting miser is in the right road to heaven. 

It is not, perhaps, easy for a reader who hath never been in 
those circumstances to imagine the horror with which darkness, 
rain, and wind fill persons who have lost their way in the night ; 
and who, consequently, have not the pleasant prospect of warm 
fires, dry clothes, and other refreshments to support their 
minds in struggling with the inclemencies of the weather. A 
very imperfect idea of this horror will, however, serve suffi- 
ciently to account for the conceits which now filled the head of 
Partridge, and which we shall presently be obliged to open. 

Jones grew more and more positive that they were out of 
their road ; and the boy himself at last acknowledged he be- 



Tom loses his 
way. 



The horror of 
Partridge. 



lyo Men and Mannej^s of the Eighteenth Century. 

lieved they were not in the right road to Coventry ; though he 
affirmed, at the same time, it was impossible they should have 
missed the way. But Partridge was of a different opinion. 
He said, "When they first set out he imagined some mischief 
or other would happen. Did not you observe," said he to 
Jones, " that old woman who stood at the door just as you was 
taking horse ? I wish you had given her a small matter, with 
all my heart ; for she said then you might repent it ; and at 
that very instant it began to rain, and the wind hath continued 
rising ever since. Whatever some people may think, I am 
very certain it is in the power of witches to raise the wind 
A witch. whenever they please. I have seen it happen very often in my 

time ; and if ever I saw a witch in all my life, that old woman 
was certainly one. I thought so myself at that very time ; and 
if I had had any halfpence in my pocket, I would have given 
her some ; for, to be sure, it is always good to be charitable to 
those sort of people, for fear what may happen ; and many 
a person hath lost his cattle by saving a halfpenny." 

Jones, though he was horridly vexed at the delay which this 
mistake was likely to occasion in his journey, could not help 
smiling at the superstition of his friend, whom an accident now 
greatly confirmed in his opinion. This was a tumble from his 
horse ; by which, however, he received no other injury than 
what the dirt conferred on his clothes. 



The genteel- 
looking man. 



Partridge entirely imputed this fall to the witch. 

He told Mr. Jones it would certainly be his own turn next, 
and earnestly entreated him to return back and find out the old 
woman and pacify her. "We shall very soon," added he, 
"reach the inn; for though we have seemed to go forward, 
I am very certain we are in the identical place in which we 
were an hour ago ; and I dare swear, if it was daylight, we 
might now see the inn we set out from." 

They were got about two miles beyond Barnet, and it was 
now the dusk of the evening, when a genteel-looking man, but 
upon a very shabby horse, rode up to Jones and asked him 
whether he was going to London ; to which Jones answered in 
the affirmative. The gentleman replied, " I should be obliged 
to you, sir, if you will accept of my company ; for it is very 
late, and I am a stranger to the road." Jones readily complied 



Valor of 



Fielding. 171 

with the request ; and on they traveled together, holding that 
sort of discourse which is usual on such occasions. 

Of this, indeed, robbery was the principal topic : upon which 
subject the stranger expressed great apprehensions; but Jones 
declared he had very little to lose and consequently as little to 
fear. Here Partridge could not forbear putting in his word. 
" Your honor," said he, " may think it a little, but I am sure if 
I had a hundred-pound bank-note in my pocket, as you have, I 
should be very sorry to lose it ; but for my own part, I never 
was less afraid in my life ; for we are four of us, and if we all 
stand by one another, the best man in England can't rob us. 
Suppose he should have a pistol, he can kill but one of us, and 
a man can die but once — That's my comfort, a man can die but 
once." 

Besides the reliance on superior numbers, a kind of valor 
which hath raised a certain nation among the moderns to a Partridge, 
high pitch of glory, there was another reason for the extra- 
ordinary courage which Partridge now discovered ; for he had 
at present as much of that quality as was in the power of liquor 
to bestow. 

Our company were now arrived within a mile of Highgate, 
when the stranger turned short upon Jones, and pulling out a 
pistol, demanded that little bank-note which Partridge had 
mentioned. 

This bank-note, referred to by Partridge, was in a 
little pocket-book they had picked up on their way. 
Tom recognized it as belonging to Sophia, and held it 
sacred, spite of Partridge's endeavors to make him 
spend its contents on their necessities. 

Jones was at first somewhat shocked at this unexpected 
demand ; however, he presently recollected himself, and told 
the highwayman all the money he had in his pocket was 
entirely at his service ; and so saying, he pulled out upwards of 
three guineas, and offered to deliver it ; but the other 
answered with an oath, that would not do. Jones answered 
coolly, he was very sorry for it, and returned the money into 
his pocket. 

The highwayman then threatened if he did not deliver the Sophia's bank- 
bank-note that moment he must shoot him ; holding his pistol "°^^' 



172 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 



Louder than the 
highwayman. 



Jones's com- 
passion. 



at the same time very near to his breast. Jones instantly caught 
hold of the fellow's hand, which trembled so that he could 
scarce hold the pistol in it, and turned the muzzle from him. A 
struggle then ensued, in which the former wrested the pistol 
from the hand of his antagonist, and both came from their 
horses on the ground together, the highwayman upon his back, 
and the victorious Jones upon him. 

The poor fellow now began to implore mercy of the con- 
queror ; for, to say the truth, he was in strength by no means 
a match for Jones. " Indeed, sir," says he, " I could have no 
intention to shoot you ; for you will find the pistol was not 
loaded. This is the first robbery I ever attempted, and I have 
been driven by distress to this." 

At this instant, at about a hundred and fifty yards distance, 
lay another person on the ground, roaring for mercy in a much 
louder voice than the highwayman. This was no other than 
Partridge himself, who, endeavoring to make his escape from 
the engagement, had been thrown from his horse, and lay flat 
on his face, not daring to look up and expecting every minute 
to be shot. 

Jones having examined the pistol, and found it to be really 
unloaded, began to believe all the man had told him before 
Partridge came up : namely, that he was a novice in the trade, 
and that he had been driven to it by the distress he mentioned, 
the greatest indeed imaginable, that of a wife and five hungry 
children, and in the utmost want and misery. The truth of all 
which the highwayman most vehemently asserted, and offered 
to convince Mr. Jones of it, if he would take the trouble to go to 
his house, which was not above two miles ofi', saying, "That 
he desired no favor, but upon condition of proving all he had 
alleged." 

Jones at first pretended that he would take the fellow at his 
word, and go with him, declaring that his fate should depend 
entirely on the truth of his story. Upon this the poor fellow 
immediately expressed so much alacrity that Jones was per- 
fectly satisfied with his veracity, and began now to entertain 
sentiments of compassion for him. He returned the fellow his 
empty pistol, advised him to think of honester means of reliev- 
ing his distress, and gave him a couple of guineas for the imme- 
diate support of his wife and his family ; adding, "he wished he 



Fielding. 173 

had more for his sake, for the hundred pound that had been 
mentioned was not his own." 

Our readers will probably be divided in their opinions con- 
cerning this action ; some may applaud it perhaps as an act of 
extraordinary humanity, while those of a more saturnine tem- 
per will consider it as a want of regard to that justice which 
every man owes his country. Partridge certainly saw it in that 
light ; for he testified much dissatisfaction on the occasion, 
quoted an old proverb, and said, he should not wonder if the 
rogue attacked them again before they reached London. 

The highwayman was full of expressions of thankfulness and 

gratitude. He actually dropt tears, or pretended so to do. He The highway- 
° .> r- ! r- man's grati- 

vowed he would immediately return home, and would never tude. 

afterward commit such a transgression : whether he kept his 

word or no perhaps may appear hereafter. 

Our travelers having remounted their horses, arrived in town 

without encountering any new mishap. 

Now Sophia, strangely enough, had fallen in with a 
traveling lady who proved (really) to be her own cousin, 
one Mrs. Fitz Patrick, who was on her way to London 
with a certain nobleman, an Irish peer, of her neighbor- 
hood. 

We will therefore attend his lordship and his fair companions, 
who made such good expedition that they performed a journey w%ao London, 
of ninety miles in two days, and on the second evening arrived 
in London without having encountered any one adventure 
on the road worthy the dignity of this history to relate. Our 
pen, therefore, shall imitate the expedition which it describes, 
and our history shall keep pace with the travelers who are its 
subject. Good writers will, indeed, do well to imitate the 
ingenious traveler, in this instance, who always proportions his 
stay at any place to the beauties, elegancies, and curiosities 
which it affords. At Eshur, at Stowe, at Wilton, at Eastbury, 
and at Prior's Park, days are too short for the ravished imagi- 
nation ; while we admire the wondrous power of art in 
improving nature. In some of these, art chiefly engages our 
admiration ; in others, nature and art contend for our applause ; 
but, in the last, the former seems to triumph. Here nature 
appears in her richest attire, and art, dressed with the modest- 



174 -^^ ^^^^ Manners of the Eighteenth Ce7itziry. 



The ingenious 
traveler. 



The money- 
meditating 
tradesman. 



est simplicity, attends her benignant mistress. Here nature 
indeed pours forth the choicest treasures which she hath lav- 
ished on this world ; and here human nature presents you with 
an object which can be exceeded only in the other. 

The same taste, the same imagination, which luxuriously 
riots in these elegant scenes, can be amused with objects of far 
rnferior note. The woods, the rivers, the lawns of Devon and 
of Dorset, attract the eye of the ingenious traveler and retard 
his pace, which delay he afterward compensates by swiftly 
scouring over the gloomy heath of Bagshot, or that pleasant 
plain which extends itself westward frorri Stockbridge, where no 
other object than one single tree only in sixteen miles presents 
itself to the view, unless the clouds, in compassion to our tired 
spirits, kindly open their variegated mansions to our prospect. 

Not so travels the money-meditating tradesman, the saga- 
cious justice, the dignified doctor, the warm-clad grazier, with 
all the numerous offspring of wealth and dulness. On they 
jog, with equal pace, through the verdant meadows or over the 
barren heath, their horses measuring four miles and a half per 
hour with the utmost exactness ; the eyes of the beast and of 
his master being alike directed forwards, and employed in con- 
templating the same objects in the same manner. With equal 
rapture the good rider surveys the proudest boasts of the archi- 
tect and those fair buildings with which some unknown name 
hath adorned the rich clothing town ; where heaps of bricks are 
piled up as a kind of monument to show that heaps of money 
have been piled there before. 

And now, reader, as we are in haste to attend our heroine, 
we will leave to thy sagacity to apply all this to the Boeotian 
writers, and to those authors who are their opposites. This 
thou wilt be abundantly able to perform without our aid. 
Bestir thyself therefore on this occasion ; for, though we will 
always lend thee proper assistance in difficult places, as we do 
not, like some others, expect thee to use the arts of divination 
to discover our meaning, yet we shall not indulge thy laziness 
where nothing by thy own attention is required ; for thou art 
highly mistaken if thou dost imagine that we intended, when 
we began this great work, to leave thy sagacity nothing to do ; 
or that, without sometimes exercising this talent, thou will be 
able to travel through our pages with any pleasure or profit to 
thyself. 



Fielding. 



175 



Tom arrived in London not long after his Sophia, but 
it was a long- time before he succeeded in finding: her, Tom's arrival 

° _ ^ ° ' m London. 

though his search was dihgent. He managed to amuse 
himself and keep up his spirits with diversions not 
always creditable. Here is an account of one of the few 
unobjectionable things he did. 

This was to attend Mrs. Miller and her younger daughter 
into the gallery at the playhouse, and to admit Mr. Partridge as 
one of the company. For as Jones had really that taste for 
humor which many affect, he expected to enjoy much entertain- 
ment in the criticisms of Partridge, from whom he expected 
the simple dictates of nature, unimproved, indeed, but likewise 
unadulterated, by art. 

In the first row then of the first gallery did Mr. Jones, Mrs. 
Miller, her youngest daughter, and Partridge take their places. 
Partridge immediately declared it was the finest place he had 
ever been in. When the first music was played, he said, " It 
was a wonder how so many fiddlers could play at one time, 
without putting one another out." While the fellow was light- 
ing the upper candles, he cried out to Mrs. Miller, "Look, 
look, madam, the very picture of the man in the end of the 
common-prayer book before the gunpowder-treason service." 
Nor could he help observing, with a sigh, when all the candles 
were lighted, "That here were candles enough burnt in one 
night to keep an honest poor family for a whole twelvemonth." 

As soon as the play, which was " Hamlet, Prince of Den- 
mark," began, Partridge was all attention, nor did he break 
silence till the entrance of the ghost ; upon, which he asked 
Jones, " What man that was in the strange dress ; something," partrideeat 
said he, "like what I have seen in a picture. Sure it is not the play, 
armor, is it?" Jones answered, "That is the ghost." To 
which Partridge replied with a smile, "Persuade me to that, 
sir, if you can. Though I can't say I ever actually saw a ghost 
in my life, yet I am certain I should know one, if I saw him, 
better than that comes to. No, no, sir, ghosts don't appear in 
such dresses as that, neither." In this mistake, which caused 
much laughter in the neighborhood of Partridge, he was 
suffered to continue till the scene between the ghost and 
Hamlet, when Partridge gave that credit to Mr. Garrick which 



176 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 

he had denied to Jones and fell into so violent a trembling that 
The ghost. his knees knocked against each other. Jones asked him what 

was the matter, and whether he was afraid of the warrior upon 
the stage? " O la ! sir," said he, " I perceive now it is what 
you told me. I am not afraid of anything ; for I know it is but 
a play. And if it was really a ghost, it could do one no harm 
at such a distance, and in so much company ; and yet if I was 
frightened, I am not the only person." "Why, who," cries 
Jones, "dost thou take to be such a coward here besides thy- 
self?" "Nay, you may call me coward if you will; but if 
that little man there upon the stage is not frightened, I never 
saw any man frightened in my life. Ay, ay : go along with 
you! Ay, to be sure ! Who's fool then ? Will you? Lud have 
mercy upon such fool-hardiness? — Whatever happens, it is 

good enough for you. Follow you ? I'd follow the devil as 

soon. Nay, perhaps, it is the devil for they say he can put 

on what likeness he pleases. — Oh ! here he is again. No 

farther ! No, you have gone far enough already ; farther than 
I'd have gone for all the king's dominions." Jones offered to 
speak, but Partridge cried, " Hush, hush ! dear sir, don't you 
hear him?" And during the whole speech of the ghost, he 
sat with his eyes fixed partly on the ghost and partly on 
Hamlet, and with his mouth open, the same passions which 
succeeded each other in Hamlet succeeding likewise in him. 

The scene is too long to make further extracts ; and 
moreover has been so often quoted as to be pretty gen- 
erally known, even now. 

Little more worth remembering occurred during the play, at 
Partridge%r ^^e end of which Jones asked him, "Which of the players he 
the king. liked best?" To this he answered, with some appearance of 

indignation at the question, "The king, without doubt." " In- 
deed, Mr. Partridge," says Mrs. Miller, "you are not of the 
. same opinion of the town ; for they are all agreed that Hamlet 
is acted by the best player who ever was on the stage." " He 
the best player ! " cries Partridge, with a contemptuous sneer, 
" why, I could act as well as he myself. I am sure, if I had 
seen a ghost, I should have looked in the very same manner, 
and done just as he did. And then, to be sure, in that scene, 
as you called it, between him and his mother, where you told 



Fielding. 177 

me he acted so fine, why, Lord help me, any man, that is, any 
good man that had such a mother, would have done exactly 
the same. I know you are only joking with me ; but indeed, 
madam, though I was never at a play in London, yet I have 
seen acting before in the country ; and the king for my money ; 
he speaks all his words distinctly, half as loud again as the 
other. Anybod)^ may see he is an actor." 

Things are now drawing to an end, but gradually, 
after the fashion of all the old books. Squire Western Squire Western 

^ in London. 

came to town and discovered his daughter. Tom, after 
a duel with a gentleman which was near to proving fatal 
to his adversary, no other than Mr. Fitz Patrick, who 
encountered Tom coming away from his wife, whom, 
however, Tom had been innocently visiting on account 
of his Sophia, was discovered in prison and forgiven by 
the squire, Mr. Allworthy, and everybody. For Mr. 
AUworthy was also in town to press the suit of Mr. Blifil 
upon Sophia, but about this time it was proved beyond 
peradventure that Blifil was a wretch and full of every 
villainy ; moreover, it came now to light that Tom 
Jones, the foundling, was the son of no other than Mr. 
Allworthy' s sister, and therefore his elder nephew, 
having been born before her marriage with Blifil's 
father. Blifil was now turned out of doors and our 
hero reinstated. 

Jones, being now completely dressed, attended his uncle to 
Mr. Western's. He was, indeed, one of the finest figures ever Approaching 
beheld, and his person alone would have charmed the greater 
part of womankind ; but we hope it hath appeared already in 
this history that nature, when she formed him, did not totally 
rely, as she sometimes doth, on this merit only to recommend 
her work. 

Sophia, who was likewise set forth to the best advantage, for 
which I leave my female readers to account, appeared so ex- 
tremely beautiful that even Allworthy, when he saw her, could 
not forbear whispering to Western that he believed she was 
the finest creature in the world. 



1 78 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Centziry. 

The tea-table was scarce removed before Western lugged 
Allworthy out of the room, telling him he had business of con- 
sequence to impart, and must speak to him that instant in pri- 
vate, before he forgot it. 
The happy All ends well, with the happy marriage of Tom and 

Tom and °^ Sophia. The affairs of everybody of the slightest im- 
Sophia. portance are wound up with careful detail. 

To conclude, as there are not to be found a worthier man and 
woman than this fond couple, so neither can any be imagined 
more happy. They preserve the purest and tenderest affection 
for each other, an affection daily increased and confirmed by 
mutual endearments and mutual esteem. Nor is their conduct 
toward their relations and friends less amiable than toward one 
another. And such is their condescension, their indulgence, 
and their beneficence to those below them, that there is not a 
neighbor, a tenant, or a servant who doth not most gratefully 
bless the day when Mr. Jones was married to his Sophia. 

I reserve for the end, although Fielding introduces it 
at the beginning of the last book, this 

Farewell to the reader. 

We are now, reader, arrived at the last stage of our long 
Simile of the journey. As we have, therefore, traveled together through so 
stage coach. many pages, let us behave to one another like fellow-travelers 
in a stage coach, who have passed several days in the company 
of each other; and who, notwithstanding any bickerings or 
little animosities which may have occurred on the road, gener- 
ally make all up at last, and mount, for the last time, into their 
vehicle with cheerfulness and good-humor ; since after this one 
stage it may possibly happen to us, as it commonly happens to 
them, never to meet more. 
As I have here taken up this simile, give me leave to carry it 
. a little farther. I intend, then, in this last book, to imitate the 
good company I have mentioned in their last journey. Now, it 
is well known that all jokes and raillery are at this time laid 
aside ; whatever characters any of the passengers have for the 
jest-sake personated on the road are now thrown off, and the 
conversation is usually plain and serious. 

In the same manner, if I have now and then, in the course of 



Fielding. 



179 



this work, indulged any pleasantry for thy entertainment, I 
shall here lay it down. The variety of matter, indeed, which I 
shall be obliged to cram into this book, will afford no room for 
any of those ludicrous observations which I have elsewhere 
made, and which may sometimes, perhaps, have prevented 
thee from taking a nap when it was beginning to steal upon 
thee. In this last book thou wilt find nothing (or at most very 
little) of that nature. All will be plain narrative only ; and, in- 
deed, when thou hast perused the many great events which this 
book will produce, thou wilt think the number of pages con- 
tained in it scarce sufficient to tell the story. 
.. And now, my friend, I take this opportunity (as I shall have 
no other) of heartily wishing thee well. If I have been an 
entertaining companion to thee, I promise thee it is what I 
have desired. If in anything I have offended, it was really 
without any intention. Some things, perhaps, here said may 
have hit thee or thy friends ; but I do most solemnly declare 
they were not pointed at thee or them. I question not but thou 
hast been told, among other stories of me, that thou wast 
to travel with a very scurrilous fellow ; but whoever told thee 
so did me an injury. No man detests and despises scurrility 
more than myself ; nor hath any man more reason ; for none 
hath ever been treated with more ; and what is a very severe 
fate, I have had some of the abusive writings of those very 
men fathered upon me, who, in other of their works, have 
abused me themselves with the utmost virulence. 

All these works, however, I am well convinced, will be dead 
long before this page shall offer itself to thy perusal ; for how- 
ever short the period may be of my own performances, they 
will most probably outlive their own infirm author and the 
weakly productions of his abusive contemporaries. 



Variety of 
matter. 



Hearty well- 
wishing. 



BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

Henry Fielding (Men of Letters Series). 
Complete Works of Henry Fielding. 



BOOK VI. 
GOLDSMITH. 



Birth and 
parentage. 



Goldsmith's 
arrival in 
London. 



CHAPTER XVI.- 

Oliver Goldsmith is another figure of the time 
among the most dehghtful ; he was born in Ireland 
(which perhaps accounts for it) of Protestant parents. 
His father was a clergyman, his mother was the daugh- 
ter of one. In Goldsmith's Dr. Primrose we may- 
recognize the father ; of his first school-teacher, Thomas 
Byrne, this may answer as the picture : 

A man severe he was, and stern to view ; 
I knew him well, and every truant knew. 
Well had the boding tremblers learnt to trace 
The day's disasters in his morning face : 
Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee 
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; 
Full well the busy whisper, circling round. 
Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned. 
Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught, 
The love he bore to learning was in fault : 
The village all declared how much he knew ; 
'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too ; 
Land he could measure, terms and tides presage ; 
And even the story ran that he could gauge. 

Every biography of Goldsmith is interesting, but we 
must postpone his acquaintance to his arrival in London. 
He was twenty-seven years and three months old when 
he first set his foot in London streets, and he was to be 
a Londoner and nothing else all the rest of his life. 



Goldsmith. 



, At that time, in 1756, the population of London was 
about 700,000. The reign of George II., which had London in 1756. 
ah'eady extended over nearly thirty years, was approach- 
ing its close. In home politics what was chiefly inter- 
esting was the persistence in office of the Duke of 
Newcastle's unpopular ministry — opposed, however, by 
Pitt (afterward Lord Chatham), and soon to give way 
before the genius of that statesman, and to be succeeded ^ 
by that blaze of Pitt's ascendancy which makes the last 
years of George II. so brilliant a period in British 
annals. For Britain and Frederick the Great of Prussia 
were already on an understanding with each other, and 
the Seven Years' War was beginning. Not till 1757, 
indeed, when Pitt became prime minister, did the alli- 
ance begin to promise its splendid results — Clive's con- 
quests in India, Wolfe's in America, etc. Just at 
present, while Newcastle was in power, things had a 
blacker look. Byng's blundering at Minorca, the all 
but certain loss of Hanover, and the like — these were 
the topics for the 700,000 Londoners ; unless they chose 
to talk rather of such matters nearer home as the 
building of the new chapel for Whitefield in Tottenham 
Court Road, or the opening of the Foundling Hospital, 
or the proposed taking down of the old houses on 
London Bridge. 

To assist them to proper opinions on these and all 
other subjects there were the London newspapers — 
daily, weekly, and bi-weekly. Whig, Tory, and what 
;not ; as well as quite an abundance of critical journals, literature™^ '" 
reviews, and magazines. For it was beginning to be a 
very busy time in British literature. It was no longer 
on the court, or on Whig and Tory ministers, or on the 
casual patronage of noblemen of taste, that men of letters 
depended, but on the demand of the general public of 



1 82 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 



Authors con- 
gregated in 
London. 



State of the 
world of letters. 



readers and book-purchasers, as it could be ascertained 
and catered for by booksellers making publishing their 
business. The center of this book-trade was naturally 
London ; and here, accordingly, hanging on the book- 
sellers, and writing for the newspapers and magazines, 
but with side glances also to the theaters and their man- 
agers, were now congregated such a host of authors and 
critics by profession as had never been known in London 
before, many of them now dismissed into oblivion as 
the smaller fry of this Grub Street world of London in 
the latter days of George IL Amongst them was John- 
son, then forty-seven years of age. The poet Young was 
alive, in old age, and at least occasionally in London ; 
and Londoners confirmed were Richardson, approach- 
ing his seventieth year, with all his novels published, 
and Smollett, not past his thirty-seventh year, but with 
some of his best novels published, and now working 
hard at histories, reviews, and all sorts of things. Field- 
ing had been dead two years, and Sterne, though some 
years over forty, had not yet been heard of. The poet 
Collins was dying in madness at Chichester. Garrick, 
Chesterfield, Warburton, Shenstone, Gray, Horace Wal- 
pole, who were alive in England, could be and were in 
London if they liked. Burke, who was Goldsmith's 
junior, was already there. 

Such was the state of the world of British letters at 
the end of the Second George's reign, when Goldsmith 
came to London. Colley Cibber was laureate, of whom 
Johnson had written : 

Great George's acts let tuneful Cibber sing, 
For nature formed the poet for tlie king. 

But Cibber, who was now eighty-four years of age, did 
not live beyond 1757. He was succeeded by William 
Whitehead, whose laureateship extended from 1757 to 



Goldsmith. 



183 



1788. The whole of Goldsmith's literary career, as it 
happened, and large portions also of the lives of others 
whom we now associate with him, fell within this 
memorable period. 

For a long time Goldsmith's life in London was one Hack-work and 
of mere drudgery and literary hack-work. In 1758 he ™ ^^^^' 
was living in No. 12, Green Arbour Court, Old Bailey 
— a dingy little old square, approached from Farringdon 
Street by a passage called Break-Neck Steps, now all 
demolished, and surviving only in Washington Irving' s 
description of it when he visited it for Goldsmith's sake, 
and found it a colony of washerwomen, and slovenly 
with wash-tubs on the pavement and clothes hung to dry 
on lines from the windows. 

About this time he writes in a letter to a friend : 

Alas ! I have many a fatigue to encounter before that happy 
time arrives when your poor old simple friend may again give a 
loose to the luxuriance of his nature, sitting by Kilmore fire- 
side, recount the various adventures of a hard-fought life, laugh 
over the follies of the day, join his flute to your harpsichord, 
and forget that ever he starved in those streets where Butler 
and Otway starved before him. 



It gives me some pain to think I am almost beginning the 
world at the age of thirty-one. Though I never had a day's 
illness since I saw you, I am not that strong, active man you 
once knew me. You scarcely can conceive how much eight 
years of disappointment, anguish, and study have worn me 
dov/n. If I remember right, you are seven or eight years older 
than me ; yet I dare venture to saj'- that, if a stranger saw us 
both, he would pay me the honors of seniority. Imagine to 
yourself a pale, melancholy visage, with two great wrinkles 
between the eyebrows, with an eye disgustingly severe, and a 
big wig ; and you have a perfect picture of my present appear- 
ance. ... I can neither laugh nor drink ; have contracted 
a hesitating, disagreeable manner of speaking, and a visage 
that looks ill-nature itself ; in short, I have thought myself into 



Beginning the 
world at thirty- 
one. 



184 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 



Description of 
his room. 



A turn for the 

better. 



a settled melancholy and an utter disgust of all that life brings 
with it. . . . Your last letter, I repeat it, was too short ; 
you should have given me your opinion of the design of the 
heroi-comical poem which I sent you. You remember I intended 
to introduce the hero of the poem as lying in a paltry alehouse. 
You may take the following specimen of the manner, which I 
jlatter myself is quite original. The room in which he lies may 
be described somewhat in this way : 

The window, patched with paper, lent a ray 

That feebly showed the state in which^he lay ; 

The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread. 

The humid wall with paltry pictures spread ; 

The game of goose was there exposed to view, 

And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew ; 

The Seasons, framed with listing, found a place. 

And Prussia's monarch showed his lamp-black face. 

The morn was cold ; he views with keen desire 

A rusty grate unconscious of a fire ; 

An unpaid reckoning on the frieze was scored, 

And five cracked teacups dressed the chimney-board. 

This letter was written in February, 1759, and within 
a month or two after that date things took a turn for the 
better with Goldsmith. 

Acquaintances were multiplying round him. Even in 
his worst distress the sociable creature had made him- 
self at home with his landlord's family ; his flute and 
sweetmeats, when he had them, were at the service of 
the children of Green Arbour Court, some of whom 
grew up to remember him and tell anecdotes of him ; 
and we hear of one person, an ingenious watchmaker of 
the neighborhood, who used to spend evenings with 
him. Then, according to Thackeray's observation that 
there never was an Irishman so low in circumstances but 
there was some Irishman lower still and looking up to 
him and going errands for him, there were several 
fellow-countrymen of Goldsmith clinging to him, to be 
helped by him when he could hardly help himself — 



Goldsmith. 185 



especially a certain Ned Purdon, who had been his 
schoolfellow. At the Temple Coffee House, also, there General 

^ ' ' society, 

were opportunities for something like general society. 
But in the course of 1759 we have more distinct traces of 
Goldsmith's contact with known men in London. It 
was in March in that year, just before the publication of 
Goldsmith's "Inquiry into the State of Polite Learn- 
ing," that the Rev. Mr. Percy, afterward Bishop Percy 
of the ballads, paid that first memorable visit to him in 
Green Arbour Court, the queer incidents of which he 
used afterward to describe. From that day Percy and 
Goldsmith were friends for life. 

Garrick's first encounter with Goldsmith was several 
months later, and much less pleasant. The secretary^ 
ship of the Society of Arts being vacant, Goldsmith was 
anxious to obtain the post, and waited on the great actor 
to solicit his vote and interest. Garrick, it is said, re- 
minded him of a passage in his ' ' Polite Learning, ' ' and 
asked how he could expect his support after that. It 
was a passage in which, while discussing the prospects 
of the drama, Goldsmith had expressed rather sharply 
the common complaint then made against theater man- 
agers, that they neglected contemporary talent and lived 
on old stock-plays which cost them nothing. ' ' Indeed, ' ' 
said he bluntly, " I spoke my mind, and believe I said 
what was very right. ' ' And so they parted civilly, and 
it was long before Garrick and Goldsmith came really Garrick and 
together. Quite otherwise it was between Goldsmith ° ^"' 
and Smollett. It is pleasant to think of these two, per- 
haps the most strongly contrasted humorists and men of 
genius of their day — the simple, gentle-hearted, sweet- 
styled Irishman, and the bold, splenetically-independent, 
irascible, richly-inventive, rough-writing, but somber and 
melancholic Scotchman — as knit together by some mu- 



1 86 Meii and Manners of the Eighteenth Centnry. 

tual regard, when Smollett was already in the full bustle 
of his fame and industry, and Goldsmith struggling and 
in need of employment. During the whole of 1759, as we 
have seen, they had been, to some extent, fellow-work- 
men. And in the end of that year there was a visit of 
,Smollett, along with the bookseller Newbery of St. 
Paul's Churchyard, to Goldsmith's lodgings in Green 
Newbery. Arbour Court, which led to important results. 

Newbery was the famous printer in those days of all 
children's books, and as it is well known that he em- 
ployed him for much of his hack-work, there is a sort of 
vague suspicion that Goldsmith may have been the 
author of " Goody Two Shoes." 



Bookseller 



CHAPTER XVII. 

It was in the Public Ledger that Goldsmith made his 
great hit. He had been engaged by Newbery to 
furnish for this newspaper an article of some amusing 
kind twice a week, to be paid for at the rate of a guinea 
per article. He had already written one or two articles 
to suit, when the idea struck him of bringing on the 
scene an imagfinary philosophic Chinaman, resident in The Chinaman 

ri J. r , ir in London. 

London after long wandenngs from home, and oi 
making the adventures of this Chinaman, and his obser- 
vations of men and things in the western world, as 
recorded in letters supposed to be written by him to 
friends in China, together with the replies of these 
friends, the material for a series of papers which should 
consist of character sketches, social satire, and whimsi- 
cal reflection on all sorts of subjects, connected by a 
slight thread of story. He had always had a fancy for 
China and the Chinese. This is the style of them : 

Were we to estimate the learning of the English by the num- 
ber of books that are every day published among them, 
perhaps no country, not even China itself, could equal them in 
this particular. I have reckoned not less than twenty-three 'p^p„t ^ 
new books published in one day, which upon computation new books a 
makes eight thousand three hundred and ninety-five in one ^^' 
year. Most of these are not confined to one single science, but 
embrace the whole circle. History, politics, poetry, mathe- 
matics, metaphysics, and the philosophy of nature, are all com- 
prised in a manual not larger than that in which our children 
are taught the letters. If, then, we suppose the learned of 
England to read but an eighth part of the works which daily 
come from the press (and sure none can pretend to learning 
upon less easy terms), at this rate every scholar will read a 

187 



1 88 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 



English lim- 
itations and 
liberties. 



The Lama an 
idol. 



thousand books in one year. From such a calculation you may 
conjecture what an amazing fund of literature a man must be 
possessed of, who thus reads three new books every day, not 
one of which but contains all the good things that ever were 
said or written. 

And yet I know not how it happens, but the English are not, 
in reality, so learned as would seem from this calculation. We 
meet but few who know all arts and sciences to perfection ; 
whether it is that the generality are incapable of such extensive 
knowledge, or that the authors of those books are not adequate 
instructors. In China the emperor himself takes cognizance of 
all the doctors in the kingdom who profess authorship. In 
England every man may be an author that can write ; for they 
have by law a liberty, not only of saying what they please, but 
of being also as dull as they please. . . . 

When a man has once secured a circle of admirers, he may 
be as ridiculous here as he thinks proper ; and it all passes for 
elevation of sentiment or learned absence. If he transgresses 
the common forms of breeding, mistakes even a teapot for a 
tobacco-box, it is said that his thoughts are fixed on more 
important objects : to speak and to act like the rest of mankind 
is to be no greater than they. There is something of oddity in 
the very idea of greatness ; for we are seldom astonished at a 
thing very much resembling ourselves. 

When the Tartars make a Lama, their first care is to place 
him in a dark corner of the temple : here he is to sit half con- 
cealed from view, to regulate the motion of his hands, lips, and 
eyes ; but, above all, he is enjoined gravity and silence. This, 
however, is but the prelude to his apotheosis : a set of emis- 
saries are despatched among the people, to cry up his piety, 
gravity, and love of raw flesh ; the people take them at their 
word, approach the Lama, now become an idol, with the most 
humble prostration ; he receives their addresses without mo- 
tion, commences a god, and is ever after fed by his priests with 
' the spoon of immortality. The same" receipt in this country 
serves to make a great man. The idol only keeps close, sends 
out his little emissaries to be hearty in his praise ; and straight, 
whether statesman or author, he is set down in the list of fame, 
continuing to be praised while it is fashionable to praise, or 
while he prudently keeps his minuteness concealed from the 
public. 



Goldsmith. 



knights. 



I have visited many countries, and have been in cities without 
number, yet never did I enter a town which could not produce Little great 
ten or twelve of those little great men ; all fancying themselves '"^"• 
known to the rest of the world, and complimenting each other 
upon their extensive reputation. It is amusing enough when 
two of these domestic prodigies of learning mount the stage of 
ceremony, and give and take praise from each other. I have 
been present when a German doctor, for having pronounced a 
panegyric upon a certain monk, was thought the most ingen- 
ious man in the world ; till the monk soon after divided this 
reputation by returning the compliment ; by which means they 
both marched off with universal applause. 

From "The Citizen of the World." 
The princes of Europe have found out a manner of rewarding 
their subjects who have behaved well, by presenting them with 
about two yards of blue ribband, which is worn about the shoul- 
der. They who are honored with this mark of distinction are 
called knights, and the king himself is always the head of the Order of 
order. This is a very frugal method of recompensing the most 
important services ; and it is very fortunate for kings that their 
subjects are satisfied with such trifling rewards. Should a 
nobleman happen to lose his leg in a battle, the king presents 
him with two yards of ribband, and he is paid for the loss of his 
limb. Should an embassador spend all his paternal fortune 
in supporting the honor of his country abroad, the king pre- 
sents him with two yards of ribband, which is to be considered 
as an equivalent to his estate. In short, while an European 
king has a yard of blue or green ribband left he need be under 
no apprehensions of wanting statesmen, generals, and soldiers. 
I cannot sufficiently admire those kingdoms in which men 
with large patrimonial estates are willing thus to undergo real 
hardships for empty favors. A person, already possessed of a 
competent fortune, who undertakes to enter the career of ambi- 
tion, feels many real inconveniences from his station, while it 
procures him no real happiness that he was not possessed of 
before. He could eat, drink, and sleep before he became a 
courtier, as well, perhaps better, than when invested with his 
authority. He could command flatterers in a private station, 
as well as in his public capacity, and indulge at home every 
favorite inclination, uncensured and unseen by the people. 



Empty favors. 



1 90 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Cejitury. 



Observation of 
Confucius. 



New books. 



I look upon these courtiers as a set of good-natured, mis- 
guided people, who are indebted to us, and not to themselves, 
for all the happiness they enjoy. For our pleasure, and not 
their own, they sweat under a cumbrous heap of finery ; for our 
pleasure, the lacquied train, the slow-parading pageant, with all 
the gravity of grandeur, moves in review : a single coat, or a 
single footman, answers all the purposes of the most indolent 
refinement as well ; and those who have twenty may be 
said to keep one for their own pleasure and the other nineteen 
merely for ours. So true is the observation of Confucius, 
"That we take greater pains to persuade others that we are 
happy, than in endeavoring to think so ourselves." 

But though this desire of being seen, of being made the sub- 
ject of discourse, and of supporting the dignities of an exalted 
station, be troublesome enough to the ambitious, yet it is well 
for society that there are men thus willing to exchange ease and 
safety for danger and a ribband. We lose nothing by their 
vanity, and it would be unkind to endeavor to deprive a child 
of its rattle. If a duke or a duchess are willing to carry a long 
train for our entertainment, so much the worse for themselves ; 
if they choose to exhibit in public, with a hundred lacquies and 
mamelukes in their equipage, for our entertainment, still so 
much the worse for themselves ; it is the spectators alone who 
give and receive the pleasure ; they only are the sweating fig- 
ures that swell the pageant. 



There are numbers in this city who live by writing new 
books ; and yet there are thousands of volumes in every large 
library unread and forgotten. This, upon my arrival, was one 
of those contradictions which I was unable to account for. " Is 
it possible," said I, "that there should be any demand for new 
books, before those already published are read ? Can there be 
so many employed in producing a commodity with which the 
market is already overstocked — and with goods also better 
than any of modern manufacture?" 

What at first view appeared an inconsistence is a proof at 
once of this people's wisdom and refinement. Even allowing 
the works of their ancestors better written than theirs, yet those 
of the moderns acquire a real value by being marked with the 
impression of the times. Antiquity has been in the possession 
of others ; the present is our own : let us first, therefore, learn 



Goldsmith. 191 



to know what belongs to ourselves and then, if we have leisure, 
cast our reflections back to the reign of Shonou, who governed 
twenty thousand years before the creation of the moon. 

The volumes of antiquity, like medals, may very well serve 
to amuse the curious ; but the works of the moderns, like the Modern and 
current coin of a kingdom, are much better for immediate use : compared, 
the former are often prized above their intrinsic value, and 
kept with care ; the latter seldom pass for more than they are 
worth, and are often subject to the merciless hands o^ sweating 
critics and clipping compilers : the works of antiquity are ever 
praised, those of the moderns read : the treasures of our 
ancestors have our esteem, and we boast the passion ; those of 
contemporary genius engage our heart, although we blush to 
own it. The visits we pay the former resemble those we pay 
the great — the ceremony is troublesome, and yet such as we 
would not choose to forego : our acquaintance with modern 
books is like sitting with a friend — our pride is not flattered in 
the interview, but it gives more internal satisfaction. 

In proportion as society refines, new books must ever be- 
come more necessary. Savage rusticity is reclaimed by oral 
admonition alone ; but the elegant excesses of refinement are 
best corrected by the still voice of studious inquiry. In a 
polite age almost every person becomes a reader, and receives 
more instruction from the press than the pulpit. The preach- The press and 
ing bonze may instruct the illiterate peasant ; but nothing less *■ ^ P" P''* 
than the insinuating address of a fine writer can win its way to 
an heart already relaxed in all the effeminacy of refinement. 

Instead, then, of thinking the number of new publications 
here too great, I could wish it still greater, as they are the 
most useful instruments of reformation. Every country must 
be instructed either by writers or preachers ; but as the 
number of readers increases, the number of hearers is pro- 
portionally diminished ; the writer becomes more useful and 
the preaching bonze less necessary. 

' ' The Citizen of the World ' ' was published complete 
in 1762, and Goldsmith received five guineas for the new 
copyright. 



CHAPTER XVIII. 



Goldsmith's 
receipts. 



Meeting with 
Johnson. 



Goldsmith's receipts at this time, and chiefly from 
Newbery, may be calculated at what would be equiva- 
lent now to about ^^250 or ;/^300 a year ; and, though 
he was generally on the debtor side in Newbery' s books, 
for work paid for in part beforehand, there is yet evi- 
dence that the Goldsmith of Wine OfiEice Court was, 
socially, in a different plight from the Goldsmith of 
Green Arbour Square. Not only does he frequent the 
theaters and taverns, attend meetings of the Society of 
Arts, and drop in on Monday evenings at the famous 
Robin Hood Debating Society in Butcher Row, he even 
* ' receives ' ' in his own lodging, is sponged upon there 
for guineas and half-guineas by rascals that know his 
good-nature, and sometimes gives literary suppers. One 
such supper, given by him in Wine Office Court, is 
memorable. It was on the 31st of May, 1761. Whether 
Johnson had met Goldsmith before is uncertain ; most 
probably he had, for the author of the ' ' Inquiry into 
Polite Learning" and the "Chinese Letters" can hardly 
have remained a stranger to him ; but this, at all events, 
was their first meeting not merely casual. Johnson had 
accepted Goldsmith's invitation to meet a party of 
friends, and Percy was to accompany him. As the two 
were walking to Wine Office Court, Percy observed, to 
his surprise, that Johnson had on "a new suit of 
clothes," with "a new wig nicely powdered," and 
everything in style to match. Struck with such a varia- 
tion from Johnson's usual habits, he ventured a remark 



Goldsmith. 193 



on the subject. "Why, sir," said Johnson in reply, " I 
hear that Goldsmith, who is a very great sloven, justifies ]^h'nson°^ 
his disregard of cleanliness and decency by quoting my 
practice, and I am desirous this night to show him a 
better example." And so the two went in, and the 
door was shut behind them and the others ; and there 
was, no doubt, much noise and splendid talk far into the 
night ; but it has not been reported, for there was no 
Boswell there. 

From that day began the immortal intimacy of the 
gentle Goldsmith with the great Johnson, and all that 
peculiar radiance over the London of the eighteenth 
century which we still trace to the conjunction of their 
figures in its antique streets. Of only three of his con- 
temporaries in the English world of letters had Gold- 
smith written with admiration approaching to enthusiasm 
— Smollett, the poet Gray, and Johnson. A recluse at 
Cambridge, Gray was inaccessible. With Smollett an 
acquaintance had already been established : but the Goldsmith's 

. . . intimates. 

resident London life of the overworked and melancholic 
novelist was nearly over, and he was about to be a 
wanderer thenceforth in search of health. But at last 
Goldsmith had happened on that most massive and cen- 
tral of the three, toward whom in any case all intel- 
lectual London consciously or unconsciously gravitated. 
Johnson was then in his fifty-second year, living in 
chambers in Inner Temple Lane — not yet "Dr.," and 
not yet pensioned, though on the point of being so ; but 
already with much of his greatest work done, and firm 
in his literary dictatorship. Goldsmith was nineteen 
years younger, and with the best of his work before 
him. 

This acquaintance with Johnson led to his introduction 
to Reynolds (not yet Sir Joshua), then forty years of age. 



194 -^^ ^^^ Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 



Joshua 
Reynolds. 



The Mitre 
Tavern. 



living in his mansion in Leicester Square, and hospita- 
ble, with his kind serenity of attached disposition and his 
^6,000 a year, to the largest circle of friends that any 
man ever drew around him. To these occasions Gold- 
smith was certainly welcome. Here he would meet 
Edmund Burke, who barely remembered him at Trinity 
College, Dublin ; and sometimes he and Johnson, leav- 
ing Reynolds's, and parting with Burke at the door, 
would go down the Strand to Johnson's chambers in 
Inner Temple Lane, or perhaps (for, as we know, 
Johnson hated early hours) drop in for more talk at the 
Mitre Tavern in Fleet Street. 

On the site of Johnson's Mitre Tavern stands Hoare's 
Bank, which dates from 1680 ; the sign of the Golden 
Bottle, still preserved over the door (a leathern bottle 
such as was used by haymakers for their ale), represents 
the flask carried by the founder when he came up to 
London to seek his fortune. 

It was either at some now unknown lodging in town, 
occupied for some little time, or, more probably, at the 
Islington apartments in Mrs. Fleming's house, that 
there occurred late in 1764 an incident in Goldsmith's 
life of which very varying versions have been given, but 
of which the true account is indubitably Dr. Johnson's. 

I received one morning [Johnson long afterward told Bos- 
well] a message from poor Goldsmith that he was in great dis- 
tress, and, as it was not in his power to come to me, begging 
that I would come to him as soon as possible. I sent him a 
guinea, and promised to come to him directly. I accordingly 
went as soon as I was dressed, and found that his landlady had 
arrested him for his rent, at which he was in a violent passion. 
I perceived that he had already changed my guinea, and had 
got a bottle of Madeira and a glass before him. I put the cork 
into the bottle, desired he would be calm, and began to talk to 
him of the means by which he might be extricated. He then 



Goldsmith. 195 



told me that he had a novel ready for the press, which he pro- 
duced to me. I looked into it and saw its merit ; told the land- 
lady I would soon return ; and, having gone to a bookseller, 
sold it for £(iO. I brought Goldsmith the money, and he dis- 
charged his rent, not without rating his landlady in a high tone 
for having used him so ill. 

This was the manuscript of ' ' The Vicar of Wakefield. ' ' « -phe vicar of 
At this very time he had another thing by him, written Wakefield." 
for his own pleasure, and according to his own best ideas 
of literary art. This was his poem of ' ' The Traveller, ' ' 
the idea of which had occurred to him nine years before, 
during his own continental wanderings, and some frag- 
ments of which he had then written and sent home from 
Switzerland to his brother Henry. On this poem, as 
well as on " The Vicar of Wakefield," he had been for 
some time engaged in his Islington lodgings, writing it 
slowly and bringing it to the last degree of finish, but so 
diffident of its success as to say nothing about it to his 
friends. Reynolds, indeed, once visiting him, found 
him bending over something at his desk, and at the 
same time holding up his finger in rebuke every now 
and then to a little dog he was teaching to sit on its 
haunches in a corner of the room ; and, on looking over 
his shoulder at the manuscript, he could see that it was a 
poem, and was able to read and remember one couplet. 
At length, probably at the very time of Johnson's visit of 
rescue. Goldsmith took Johnson into his confidence in 
the matter of the poem too. It was highly approved by 
that judge, who even added a line or two of his own ; 
the elder Newbery, who may already have been spoken 
to about it, did not mind promising twenty guineas for 
it ; and on the 19th of December, 1764, it was pub- 
lished, price one shilling and sixpence, with this title, ""^hexra"*!- 
*' A Traveller ; or a Prospect of Society : A Poem. By ^s""" 



196 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 

Oliver Goldsmith, M. B." It was the first publication 
of Goldsmith's that bore his name, and it was dedicated, 
in terms of beautiful affection, to his brother, the Rev. 
Henry Goldsmith. 

The publication of "The Traveller" was an epoch in 

in his life. Goldsmith's life. Now at last, at the age of six-and- 

thirty, he stood forth, not as an essayist, compiler, and 
anonymous prose-humorist, but avowedly as a candidate 
for those higher and finer honors that belong to the 
name of English poet. 

As by his "Traveller" Goldsmith had taken his 
place among English poets, so by " The Vicar of Wake- 
field ' ' he took a place, if not as one of the remark- 
able group of English novelists that distinguished the 
middle of the eighteenth century, at least with peculiar 
conspicuousness near that group. Richardson had been 
five years dead ; Fielding twelve years ; only Smollett 
of the old three remained, with his " Humphry Clinker" 
still to be written. How simple this "Vicar of Wake- 
field ' ' was, how humorous, how pathetic, how graceful 
in its manner, how humane in every pulse of its mean- 

Popuiarity of ing, how truly and deeply good ! So said everybody : 

"The Vicar of °' , „ . 1 ,, r- • , 

Wakefield." and gradually mto that world of imaginary scenes and 
beings made familiar to British readers by former works 
of fiction, and the latest additions to which had been 
Smollett's and Sterne's inventions, a place of especial 
regard was found for the ideal Wakefield, the Primrose 
family, and all their belongings. 

. Everybody, even in our time, has read, or must read, 
"The Vicar of Wakefield " ; but I select some passages 
as pictures of the period, especially those that give an 
idea of simple country life as contrasted with the city 
manners of Evelina's friends eiven later. 



CHAPTER XIX. 

The place of our retreat was in a little neighborhood, consist- 
ing of farmers, who tilled their own grounds and were equal 
strangers to opulence and poverty. As they had almost all the The vicar de- 
conveniences of life within themselves, they seldom visited home!^ '^ "^^ 
towns or cities in search of superfluity. Remote from the 
polite, they still retained the primeval simplicity of manners ; 
and, frugal by habit, they scarce knew that temperance was a 
virtue. They wrought with cheerfulness on days of labor, but 
observed festivals as intervals of idleness and pleasure. They 
kept up the Christmas carol, sent true love-knots on Valentine 
morning, ate pancakes on Shrovetide, showed their wit on the 
first of April, and religiously cracked nuts on Michaelmas eve. 
Being apprised of our approach, the whole neighborhood came 
out to meet their minister, dressed in their finest clothes, and 
preceded by a pipe and tabor. A feast also was provided for 
our reception, at which we sat cheerfully down ; and what the 
conversation wanted in wit was made up in laughter. 



The little republic to which I gave laws was regulated in the 
following manner : By sunrise we all assembled in our com- 
mon apartment, the fire being previously kindled by the serv- 
ant. After we had saluted each other with proper ceremony 
— for I always thought fit to keep up some mechanical forms of 
good breeding, without which freedom ever destroys friend- 
ship — we all bent in gratitude to that Being who gave us 
another day. This duty being performed, my son and I went 
to pursue our usual industry abroad, while my wife and daugh- 
ters employed themselves in providing breakfast, which was 
always ready at a certain time. I allowed half an hour for this 
meal, and an hour for dinner ; which time was taken up in 
innocent mirth between my wife and daughters, and in philo- 
sophical arguments between my son and me. 

As we rose with the sun, so we never pursued our labors 
after it was gone down, but returned home to the expecting 



Laws of the 
little republic. 



198 Men and Maimers of the Eighteenth Century. 

family, where smiling looks, a neat hearth, and pleasant fire- 
were prepared for our reception. Nor were we without guests : 
sometimes farmer Flamborough, our talkative neighbor, and 
often the blind piper, would pay us a visit, and taste our goose- 
berry wine, for the making of which we had lost neither the 
receipt nor the reputation. These harmless people had several 
ways of being good company ; while one played the other 
would sing some soothing ballad — Johnny Armstrong's "Last 
Good-Night," or "The Cruelty of Barbara Allen." The night 
was concluded in the manner we began ,the morning, my 
youngest boys being appointed to read the lessons of the day ; 
and he that read loudest, distinctest, and best was to have a 
halfpenny on Sunday to put into the poor's box. 
When Sunday came, it was indeed a day of finery, which all 
Sunday a day niy sumptuary edicts could not restrain. How well soever I 

of finery. /• • j 

fancied my lectures against pride had conquered the vanity of 
my daughters, yet I still found them secretly attached to all 
their former finery ; they still loved laces, ribbands, bugles, and 
catgut ; my wife herself retained a passion for her crimson 
paduasoy, because I formerly happened to say it became her. 

The first Sunday, in particular, their behavior served tO' 
mortify me. I had desired my girls the preceding night to be 
dressed early the next day ; for I always loved to be at church 
a good while before the rest of tlie congregation. They punc- 
tually obeyed my directions ; but when we were to assemble in 
the morning at breakfast, down came my wife and daughters 
dressed out in all their former splendor, their hair plastered up 
with pomatum, their faces patched to taste, their trains bundled 
up in a heap behind, and rustling at every motion. I could not 
help smiling at their vanity, particularly that of my wife, from 
whom I expected more discretion. In this exigence, therefore, 
my only resource was to order my son, with an important air, 
to call our coach. The girls were amazed at the command ; 
reproved. but I repeated it with more solemnity than before. "Surely, 

rny dear, you jest," cried my wife ; " we can walk it perfectly 
well: we want no coach to carry us now." — "You mistake, 
child," returned I, "we do want a coach; for if we walk to 
church in this trim, the very children in the parish will hoot 
after us." — "Indeed," replied my wife, "I always imagined 
that my Charles was fond of seeing his children neat and hand- 
some about him." — " You may be as neat as you please," in- 



Goldsmith. 



199 



terrupted I, " and I shall love you the better for it ; but all this 
is not neatness, but frippery. These rufflings and pinkings and 
patchings will only make us hated by all the wives of our 
neighbors. No, my children," continued I, more gravely, 
"those gowns may be altered into something of a plainer cut ; 
for finery is very unbecoming in us, who want the means of 
decency. I do not know whether such flouncing and shredding 
is becoming even in the rich, if we consider, upon a moderate 
calculation, that the nakedness of the indigent world might be 
clothed from the trimmings of the vain." 

This remonstrance had the proper effect : they went with 
^reat composure, that very instant, to change their dress ; and 
the next day I had the satisfaction of finding my daughters, at 
their own request, employed in cutting up their trains into 
Sunday waistcoats for Dick and Bill, the two little ones ; and, 
what was still more satisfactory, the gowns seemed improved 
by this curtailing. 



There were a couple of soi-disant fine ladies from the 
town, whose arrival had rather turned the heads of the 
ladies of the vicar's family. Through their influence 

the sun was dreaded as an enemy to the skin without doors, 
and the fire as a spoiler of the complexion within. My wife ob- 
served that rising too early would hurt her daughters' eyes, 
that working after dinner would redden their noses ; and she 
convinced me that the hands never looked so white as when 
they did nothing. Instead therefore of finishing George's shirts, 
we now had them new-modeling their old gauzes or flour- 
ishing upon catgut. The poor Miss Flamboroughs, their for- 
mer gay companions, were cast off as mean acquaintance, and 
the whole conversation ran upon high life, and high-lived com- 
pany, with pictures, taste, Shakespeare, and the musical glasses. 



Change of 
dress. 



My wife and daughters happening to return a visit at neighbor 
Flamborough's, found that family had lately got their pictures 
drawn by a limner, who traveled the country and took like- 
nesses for fifteen shillings a head. As this family and ours had 
long a sort of rivalry in point of taste, our spirit took the alarm 
at this stolen march upon us ; and, notwithstanding all I could 



Family por- 
traits. 



200 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 

say, and I said much, it was resolved that we should have our 
pictures done too. 

Having, therefore, engaged the limner — for what could I do ? 
—our next deliberation was to show the superiority of our taste 
in the attitudes. As for our neighbor's family, there were seven 
of them, and they were drawn with seven oranges — a thing 
quite out of taste, no variety in life, no composition in the 
world. We desired to have something in a brighter style ; and, 
after many debates, at length came to a unanimous resolution 
of being drawn together, in one large historical family piece. 
This would be cheaper, since one frame would serve for all, 
and it would be infinitely more genteel ; for all families of any 
taste were now drawn in the same manner. As we did not 
immediately recollect an historical subject to hit us, we were 
contented each with being drawn as independent historical 
figures. My wife desired to be represented as Venus, and the 
painter was desired not to be too frugal of his diamonds in her 
stomacher and hair. Her two little ones were to be as Cupids 
by her side ; while I, in my gown and band, was to present her 
with my books on the Whistonian controversy. Olivia would be 
drawn as an Amazon, sitting upon a bank of flowers, dressed 
in a green Joseph, richly laced with gold, and a whip in her 
hand. Sophia was to be a shepherdess, with as many sheep 
as the painter could put in for nothing ; and Moses was to be 
dressed out with a hat and white feather. Our taste so much 
pleased the Squire that he insisted on being put in as one of the 
family, in the character of Alexander the Great, at Olivia's 
feet. This was considered by us all as an indication of his 
desire to be introduced into the family, nor could we refuse his 
request. The painter was therefore set to work, and, as he 
wrought with assiduity and expedition, in less than four days 
the whole was completed. The piece was large, and, it must 
be owned, he did not spare his colors ; for which my wife gave 
him great encomiums. We were all perfectly satisfied with his 
the'^pfctifre.° performance ; but an unfortunate circumstance which had not 
occurred till the picture was finished now struck us with dis- 
. . may. It was so very large that we had no place in the house 

to fix it. How we all came to disregard so material a point is 
inconceivable ; but certain it is, we had been all greatly remiss. 
The picture, therefore, instead of gratifying our vanity, as we 
hoped, leaned, in a most mortifying manner, against the kitchen 



Goldsmith. 201 



wall, where the canvas was stretched and painted, much too 
large to be got through any of the doors, and the jest of all our 
neighbors. One compared it to Robinson Crusoe's long-boat, 
too large to be removed ; another thought it more resembled a 
reel in a bottle ; some wondered how it could be got out, but 
still more were amazed how it ever got in. 

And so on ; but enough. The story is too pathetic, 
and moreover too familiar, to find a place here — like 
Goldsmith's own story, which I have dealt with only in 
explanation of my extracts, and in connection with the 
men of his time. 

In 1774 Goldsmith had come to the end of some years 
of labor in compiling ; and now, if ever, was the time for in compiling, 
carrying into effect the resolution, to which he had been 
persuading himself, of retiring permanently into some ' 

quiet part of the country and coming to London only 
for two months every year. But, in fact, either to go or 
stay would have been difficult for him. All his resources 
were gone ; his feet, as he walked in the streets, were in 
a meshwork of debt, to the extent of about _;^2,ooo ; 
and all that he could look forward to, with any promise 
of relief in it, was the chance of a new stretch of some 
ten thousand acres of additional hack-work and com- 
pilation, for some bookseller who would not mind pre- 
paying for the labor in part. 

He went in March, for a week or two, to his retreat at 
Hyde on the Edgeware Road, when an attack of a local lastiun^s.^ 
complaint to which he had for some time been subject 
brought him back to his chambers in the Temple. The 
immediate illness passed off, but a kind of nervous fever 
followed ; doctors were sent for, but without avail. 
"Your pulse," said one of them to the patient, "is in 
greater disorder than it should be from the state of your 
fever : is your mind at ease?" " It is wi?/," said Gold- 



202 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 



His death. 



Scott's 
epitaph. 



smith. And so, with varying symptoms, he lay on in 
his chambers in Brick Court till Monday, the 4th of 
April, 1774, on which day it was known through town 
that Goldsmith was dead. He died at half-past four that 
morning in strong convulsions. 

When Burke was told the news, he burst into tears. 
When Reynolds was told it, he left his painting-room, 
where he then was, and did no more work that day. 
How Johnson was affected at the moment we can only 
guess ; but three months afterward he wrote as follows 
to Bennet Langton, in Lincolnshire : 

Chambers, you find, is gone far, and poor Goldsmith is gone 
much farther. He died of a fever, exasperated, as I believe, 
by the fear of distress. He raised money and squandered it 
by every artifice of acquisition and folly of expense. But let 
not his frailties be remembered ; he was a very great man. 

When Goldsmith died he was forty-five years and five 
months old. His body was buried, on the 9th of April, 
in the burying-ground of the Temple Church. The 
monument to him in Westminster Abbey, with the Latin 
inscription by Johnson, was. erected in 1776. 

In the Temple Church there is a modern monument 
to Oliver Goldsmith erected in i860. 

Sir Walter Scott's epitaph for him is : 

The wreath of Goldsmith is unsullied ; he wrote to exalt vir- 
tue and expose vice ; and he accomplished his task in a manner 
which raises him to the highest rank among British authors. 



BIBLIOGRAPHY. 
Goldsmith's Complete Works, with memoir by David Mas- 



Oliver Goldsmith. William Black. (English Men of Letters.) 
Biography of Oliver Goldsmith. Washington Irving. 
Famous Plays. J. F. MoUoy. (London, 1886.) 



BOOK VII. 
HORACE WALPOLE AND GRAY. 

CHAPTER XX. 

The correspondence of Horace Walpole is a great 
mine of facts and fancies, too extensive to explore for spondence'. 
any one without ample leisure and strong inclination to 
the task. These letters were pronounced by Walter 
Scott to be the best in our language, and Lord Byron de- 
clared them to be incomparable. Since these verdicts, 
the collections of letters by Walpole that were known to 
Scott and Byron have received the addition of several 
others, published at different times, besides many sepa- 
rate letters which have come to light. The total num- 
ber of Walpole' s published letters cannot now fall much 
short of three thousand ; the earliest of these is dated 
in November, 1735, the latest in January, 1797. Thus 
we see that the correspondence extends nearly over our 
period. Throughout all these sixty years, the writer, to ^'^ extent, 
use his own phrase, lived always in the big, busy world, 
and whatever there passed before him, his restless fingers, 
restless even when stiffened by the gout, recorded and 
commented on for the amusement of his correspondents. 
It is a serious piece of work to attack this mass of nar- 
rative and description, anecdotes and criticisms, and 
very much of it is irrelevant to our purpose, and has 
ceased to be interesting. 

Mr. Seeley's excellent, and not too large, book gives 
admirable selections from the letters, with reference to 



204 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 



Birth and 
parentage. 



Traveling 
Gray. 



with 



just those things that are interesting to my subject, and 
it is from his careful selections that I further condense. 

Horace Walpole was born on the 24th of September, 
17 1 7., the youngest son of the foremost Englishman of 
his time, Sir Robert Walpole. Walpole tells us that in 
-the first years of his life he was much indulged both by 
his mother and Sir Robert, being a delicate child ; and 
he relates the story of being carried, on account of his 
longing to see the king, to St. James-' s to kiss the hand 
of George I., just before His Majesty began his last 
journey to Hanover. He wa« sent to Eton and from 
there to King's College, Cambridge. As soon as he 
became of age he was put in the possession of a hand- 
some income, from several purely sinecure ofhces pro- 
cured for him by his father, all capable of being -executed 
by deputy, and leaving him with plenty of money and 
nothing to do. 

Thus at leisure, he set out on the continental tour 
which was then considered indispensable for a man of 
fashion. His companion was the poet Gray, with whom 
Walpole then formed a friendship which lasted through 
their lives, in spite of the interruption caused by a 
slight dissension that came up between them in travel- 
ing, as so often happens in the midst of the fatigues of 
journeys. 

Walpole took his seat in Parliament, and delivered his 
maiden speech in 1742, but it does not appear that he 
acquired any reputation in debate. His constant attend- 
ance at the House had the chief merit, it would seem, 
for furnishing material for his correspondence, and the 
same may be said for his wide acquaintance with fash- 
ionable society. 

During his active life the war of parties was largely 
carried on by anonymous pamphlets, and Walpole gave 



Art and litera- 



Hoi^ace Walpole and Gray. 205 

powerful help in this way to the subjects which aroused 
his interest. 

But he found in art and literature his chief employ- 
ment. He read widely, especially in the line of history ture his chief 

J ^ r J J employment. 

and archaeology, and thus developed a passion for col- 
lecting and imitating antiquities and curiosities of all 
kinds. For this he had means and leisure, as his duties, 
for instance as Usher of the Exchequer, were nominally 
to shut the gates of the Exchequer, and to provide the 
Exchequer and Treasury with the paper, parchment, 
pens, ink, sand, wax, tape, and other articles of the sort 
used in their department. 

His chief amusement for many years was the erection 
and adornment of his villa at Twickenham, an eccentric 
little building on the Thames, in which he gathered a 
collection of pictures and all sorts of curiosities. He 
called it Strawberry Hill. 

He bought the place with only a cottage on it from 
Mrs. Chenevix, who kept a fashionable toy-shop, and he 
writes : 

It's a little plaything house that I got out of Mrs. Chenevix's yjj,^ ^^ 
shop, and is the prettiest bauble that ever you saw. It is set in Twickenham, 
enameled meadows, with filagree hedges : 

A small Euphrates through the piece is rolled. 

And little finches wave their wings in gold. 

Walpole had acquired in his antiquarian research a 
fatal fondness for Gothic architecture ; but his zeal was 
not according to much knowledge, not guided by a very 
pure taste. The cottage grew into a strange nondescript 
edifice, half castle, half cloister, still small in its propor- 
tions, with all kinds of grotesque decorations, with a 
library, refectory, gallery, round tower, hexagon closet 
— titles to make the mouth water of an Ann Radcliffe. 
In a small cloister, outside the house, stood the blue 



2o6 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 



A curiosity 
shop. 



Mode of exist- 
ence. 



and white china bowl in which Walpole's cat was really 
drowned, so worthily celebrated by Gray's poem. 

The buildings were not solid in construction, and to 
this day their "ginger-bread Gothic" and "pie-crust 
battlements ' ' are subjects for ridicule, but I think it was 
charming of Walpole to amuse himself exactly as he 
pleased in the matter of building him a house, without 
the slightest deference to his neighbor's opinions or any 
feeling that he must be and do like the rest of the world. 
In fact, he rather enjoyed the defects in his work and 
was as well aware as anybody of its flimsiness. 

The place was filled with all sorts of wonderful objects. 
Lord Macaulay says : 

In his villa every apartment is a museum, every piece of 
furniture is a curiosity ; there is something strange in the form 
of the shovel, there is a long story belonging to the bell-rope. 
We wander among a profusion of rarities of trifling intrinsic 
value, but so quaint in fashion or connected with such remark- 
able names and events that they may well detain our attention 
a moment. A moment is enough. Some new relic, some new 
unique, some new carved work, some new enamel, is forthcom- 
ing in an instant. One cabinet of trinkets is no sooner closed 
than another is opened. 

Walpole established a printing press, amongst other 
things, on the grounds, with which he amused the com- 
pany who came incessantly to visit him. 

Thus employed, and always actively in society, and 
always writing away at his letters, this remarkable man 
passed a cheerful, airy kind of existence. When he 
was seventy-four he became by the death of his nephew 
Earl of Oxford, but he never took his seat in the House 
of Lords and seldom used the new title. Some of his 
letters after the succession are signed " the lateH. W. ," 
and some of them ' ' the uncle of the late Earl of 
Oxford." He died in 1797 in his eightieth year, in the 



Horace Walpole ajid Gray. 207 

full possession of his faculties, though for a long time he 
had suffered greatly from the effects of gout, to which 
he was a martyr. 

Walpole was unpopular in his time, and the comments 
upon him by his contemporaries are severe; unneces- 
sarily so, it seems to us, who read him through his letters 
at this distance. Inconsistency, caprice, eccentricity, 
affectation are charged against him. No doubt his pride 
of rank, his strong likes and dislikes, freely displayed, 
made him enemies. 

He wrote and published a good many things, but his 
novel, the "Castle of Otranto," although highly praised, "Castieof 
is extremely dull, and his other publications are as 
nearly as possible forgotten. It is pleasant to say that 
in the dispute with America he maintained, from the 
first, the right of our colonies to liberty and independ- 
ence. 

There is no doubt that Walpole regarded letter- 
writing as an art, and that he counted on being remem- 
bered by his letters far more than by any other of his 
writings. Meanwhile he himself is better than anything 
he writes. 



CHAPTER XXI. 

I PASS over Walpole's earliest letters, and those 
written during his travels. The following is written to 
his friend John Chute, whose acquaintance he made at 
Florence, from his father's seat at 

Houghton, August 20, 1743. 
Indeed, Mv Dear Sir : You certainly did not use to be 
stupid, and till you give me more substantial proof that you are 
so, I shall not believe it. As for your temperate diet and milk 
bringing about such a metamorphosis, I hold it impossible. I 
have such lamentable proofs every day before my eyes of the 
stupefying qualities of beef, ale, and wine that I have contracted 
a most religious veneration for your spiritual nouriture. Only 
imagine that I here every day see men who are mountains of 
roast beef, and only seem just roughly hewn out into the out- 
lines of human form, like the giant-rock at Pratolino ! I shud- 
Country man- der when I see them brandish their knives in act to carve, and 
"^''®- look on them as savages that devour one another. I should 

not stare at all more than I do if yonder alderman at the lower 
end of the table was to stick his fork into his neighbor's jolly 
cheek, and cut a brave slice of brown and fat. Why, I'll swear 
I see no difference between a country gentleman and a sirloin ; 
whenever the first laughs, or the latter is cut, there run out 
just the same streams of gravy ! Indeed, the sirloin does not 
ask so many questions. I have an aunt here, a family piece of 
goods, an old remnant of inquisitive hospitality and economy, 
who, to all intents and purposes, is as beefy as her neighbors. 
- She wore me so down yesterday with interrogatories that I 
dreamt all night she was at my ear with "who's" and 
"why's" and "when's" and "where's," till at last in my 
very sleep I cried out, " For heaven's sake, madam, ask me no 
more questions ! " 

Oh, my dear sir, don't you find that nine parts in ten of the 
world are of no use but to make you wish yourself with that 

208 



Ho7'ace Walpole and Gray. 



209 



Definition 
of ennui. 



tenth part ? I am so far from growing used to mankind by- 
living amongst them that my natural ferocity and wildness does 
but every day grow worse. They tire me, they fatigue me ; I 
don't know what to do with them ; I don't know what to say to 
them ; I fling open the windows and fancy I want air ; and 
when I get by myself, I undress myself, and seem to have had 
people in my pockets, in my plaits, and on my shoulders. I 
indeed find this fatigue worse in the country than in town, 
because one can avoid it there and has more resources, but it is 
there too. I fear 'tis growing old ; but I literally seem to have 
murdered a man whose name was Ennui, for his ghost is ever 
before me. They say there is no English word for ennui ; I 
think you may translate it most literally by what is called 
"entertaining people" and "doing the honors," that is, you sit 
an hour with somebody you don't know and don't care for, 
talk about the wind and the weather, and ask a thousand fool- 
ish questions, which all begin with, "I think you live a good 
deal in the country," or, "I think you don't love this thing or 
that." Oh ! 'tis dreadful. 

Horace was soon in the full tide of fashion, not to say 
dissipation ; for a good many years the opera, plays, 
balls, routs, and other diversions, public and private, 
mingled with accounts of journeys to visit great houses 
in the country, fill up the letters, together with abund- 
ance of scandal and playful jesting on the follies of the 
day. Here is an amusing account of the sensation pro- 
duced by the earthquake which alarmed London in Earthquake 
1750. 

Portents and prodigies are grown so frequent that they have 
lost their name. 

My text is not literally true ; but as far as earthquakes go 
toward lowering the price of wonderful commodities, to be 
sure we are overstocked. We have had a second, much more 
violent than the first ; and you must not be surprised if by next 
post you hear of a burning mountain sprung up in Smithfield. 
In the night between Wednesday and Thursday last (exactly a 
month since the first shock), the earth had a shivering fit 
between one and two ; but so slight that, if no more had fol- 



of 1750. 



2IO Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Centtiry. 

lowed I don't believe it would have been noticed. I had been 
awake, and had scarce dozed again — on a sudden I felt my bol- 
ster lift up my head ; I thought somebody was getting from 
under my bed, but soon found it was a strong earthquake, that 
lasted near half a minute, with a violent vibration and great 
roaring. I rang my bell ; my servant came in, frightened out 
of his senses ; in an instant we heard all the windows of the 
neighborhood flung up. I got up and found people running 
Slight dam- ^"^*^ ^^ Streets, but saw no mischief done ; there has been 
age done. some ; two old houses flung down, se,veral chimneys and 

much china-ware. The bells rang in several houses. Admiral 
Knowles, who has lived long in Jamaica, and felt seven there, 
says this was more violent than any of them : Francesco pre- 
fers it to the dreadful one at Leghorn. The wise say that if we 
have not rain soon, we shall certainly have more. Several 
people are going out of town, for it has nowhere reached above 
ten miles from London ; they say, they are not frightened, but 
that it is such fine weather, "Why, one can't help going out 
into the country ! " The only visible effect it has had was on 
the ridotto, at which, being the following night, there were but 
four hundred people. 

A parson, who came into White's the morning of earthquake 
the first, and heard bets laid on whether it was an earthquake 
or the blowing up of powder-mills, went away exceedingly 
Betting upon scandalized, and said, " I protest, they are such an impious set 
of people, that I believe if the last trumpet was to sound, they 
would bet puppet-show against Judgment." If we get any 
nearer still to the torrid zone, I shall pique myself on sending 
you a present of cedrati and orange-flower water : I am already 
planning a terreno for Strawberry Hill. 

I told you the women talked of going out of town ; several 
families are literally gone, and many more going to-day and 
to-morrow ; for what adds to the absurdity is, that the second 
^ shock having happened exactly a month after the former, it 
prevails that there will be a third on Thursday next, another 
month, which is to swallow up London. I am almost ready to 
burn my letter now I have begun it, lest you think I am laugh- 
ing at you : but it is so true, that Arthur of White's told me last 
night that he should put off the last ridotto, which was to be 
on Thursday, because he hears nobody would come to it. I 
have advised several who are going to keep their next earth- 



Horace Walpole and Gray. 



211 



Ridiculous 
panic. 



quake in the country, to take the bark for it, as it is so periodic. 
Dick Leveson and Mr. Rigby, who had supped and stayed late 
at Bedford House the other night, knocked at several doors, 
and in a watchman's voice cried, "Past four o'clock, and a 
dreadful earthquake." But I have done with this ridiculous 
panic ; two pages were too much to talk of it. 

I had not time to finish my letter on Monday. I return to the 
earthquake, which I had mistaken ; it is to be to-day. This 
frantic terror prevails so much that within these three days 
seven hundred and thirty coaches have been counted passing 
Hyde Park Corner, with whole parties removing into the 
country. Here is a good advertisement which I cut out of the 
papers to-day : 

"On Monday next will be published, price 6^., a true and 
exact List of all the Nobility and Gentry who have left, or shall 
leave, this place through fear of another Earthquake." 

Several women have made earthquake gowns ; that is, warm 
gowns to sit out of doors all to-night. These are of the more 
courageous. One woman, still more heroic, is come to town 
on purpose ; she says, all her friends are in London, and she 
will not survive them. But what will you think of Lady Cath- 
arine Pelham, Lady Frances Arundel, and Lord and Lady Gal- 
way, who go this evening to an inn ten miles out of town, 
where they are to play at brag till five in the morning, and then 
come back — I suppose, to look for the bones of their husbands 
and families under the rubbish ? 

Not long after the earthquake we find Walpole ^ frolic at 
engaged in a frolic at Vauxhall, in the best of company, vauxhaii. 
a gay party " parading up " the river in a barge, a boat / 

of French horns attending, and the young ladies sing- / 



At last we assembled in our booths, Lady Caroline in the front 
with the visor of her head erect and looking gloriously jolly 
and handsome. She had fetched my brother Orford from the 
next box, where he was enjoying himself with his petite partie, 
to help us to mince chickens. We minced seven chickens into 
a china dish, which Lady Caroline stewed over a lamp with 
three pots of butter and a flagon of water, stirring and rattling 
and laughing, and we every minute expecting to have the dish 



212 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 



Royal marriage. 



Anecdotes of 
the queen. 



fly about our ears. ... In short, the whole air of our 
party was sufficient, as yon may imagine, to take up the whole 
attention of the garden ; so much so that from eleven o'clock 
till half an hour after one we had the whole concourse round 
our booth ; at last they came into the little gardens of each 
booth on the sides of ours, till Harry Vane took up a bumper 
and drank their healths. 

After the king's marriage (George III. to Queen 
Charlotte) he writes : 

When we least expected the queen, she came, after being ten 
days at sea, but without sickness for above half an hour. She 
was gay the whole voyage, sung to her harpsichord, and left 
the door of her cabin open. They made the coast of Suffolk last 
Saturday and on Monday morning she landed at Harwich ; so 
prosperously has Lord Anson executed his commission. She 
lay that night at your old friend Lord Abercorn's at Witham in 
Essex ; and, if she judged by her host, must have thought she 
was coming to reign in the realm of taciturnity. She arrived at 
St. James's a quarter after three on Tuesday the 8th. When 
she first saw the palace she turned pale ; the Duchess of Ham- 
ilton smiled. 

"My dear duchess," said the princess, '^ you may laugh; 
you have been married twice ; biit it is no joke to me." 

Is this a bad proof of her sense ? On the journey they 
wanted to curl her toupet. 

" No, indeed," said she, " I think it looks as well as those ot 
the ladies who have been sent for me : if the king would have 
me wear a periwig, I will ; otherwise I shall let myself alone." 
The Duke of York gave her his hand at the garden gate ; 
her lips trembled, but she jumped out with spirit. In the gar- 
den the king met her ; she would have fallen at his feet ; he 
prevented and embraced her, and led her into the apartments, 
where she was received by the Princess of Wales and Lady 
Augusta : these three princesses only dined with the king. At 
ten the procession went to chapel, preceded by unmarried 
daughters of peers and peeresses in plenty. The new princess 
was led by the Duke of York and Prince William ; the arch- 
bishop married them ; the king talked to her the whole time 
with great good-humor, and the Duke of Cumberland gave her 
away. She is not tall, nor a beauty ; pale, and very thin ; but 



Horace Walpole and Gray. 



213 



looks sensible, and is genteel. Her hair is darkish and fine ; 
her forehead low, her nose very well, except the nostrils 
spreading too wide ; her mouth has the same fault, but her 
teeth are good. She talks a good deal, and French tolerably ; 
possesses herself, is frank, but with great respect to the king. 
After the ceremony the whole company came. into the drawing- 
room for about ten minutes, but nobody was presented that 
night. The queen was in white and silver ; an endless mantle 
of violet-colored velvet, lined with ermine, and attempted to be 
fastened on her shoulder by a bunch of large pearls, dragged 
itself and almost the rest of her clothes half way down her 
v/aist. On her head was a beautiful little tiara of diamonds ; a 
diamond necklace, and a stomacher of diamonds, worth three- 
score thousand pounds, which she is to wear at the coronation 
too. Her train was borne by the ten bridesmaids ; their heads 
crowned with diamonds, and in robes of white and silver. 

The peace of Paris brought many French people over 
to join the society of London. Walpole gave an enter- 
tainment to some of these guests at Strawberry Hill. 

. . . We breakfasted in the great parlor, and I had filled 
the hall and large cloister by turns with French horns and 
clarionettes. As the French ladies had never seen a printing- 
house I carried them into mine ; they found something ready 
set, and desiring to see what it was, it proved as follows : 

The Press Speaks for Madame de Boufflers. 
The graceful fair, who loves to know, 
Nor dreads the north's inclement snow ; 
Who bids her polish'd accent wear 
The British diction's harsher air ; 
Shall read her praise in every clime 
Where types can speak or poets rhyme. 

For Madame Dusson. 
Feign not an ignorance of what I speak ; 
You could not miss my meaning were it Greek : 
'Tis the same language Belgium uttered first. 
The same which from admiring Gallia burst. 
True sentiment a like expression pours ; 
Each country says the same to eyes like yours. 



Her appear- 
ance. 



French guests. 



214 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 



Entertainment 
at Richmond 
House. 



Duchess of 
Queensberry. 



You will comprehend that the first speaks English, and that 
the second does not ; that the second is handsome, and the first 
not ; and that the second was born in Holland. 

A fortnight afterward he writes : 

June "/th. 
■ Last night we had a magnificent entertainment at Richmond 
House, a masquerade and fireworks. A masquerade was a 
new sight to the young people, who have dressed themselves 
charmingly, without having the fear of an earthquake before 
their eyes, though Prince William and Prince Henry were not 
suffered to be there. The Duchesses of Richmond and Graf- 
ton, the first as a Persian sultana, the latter as Cleopatra — and 
such a Cleopatra ! — were glorious figures, in very different 
styles. Mrs. Fitzroy in a Turkish dress, Lady George and 
Lady Bolingbroke as Grecian girls. Lady Mary Coke as 
Imoinda, and Lady Pembroke as a pilgrim, were the principal 
beauties of the night. The whole garden was illuminated, and 
the apartments. An encampment of barges decked with 
streamers in the middle of the Thames kept the people from 
danger, and formed a stage for the fireworks, which were 
placed, too, along the rails of the garden. The ground rooms 
lighted, with supper spread, the houses covered and filled with 
people, the bridge, the garden full of masks. 

Last Thursday the Duchess of Queensberry gave a ball, 
opened it herself with a minuet, and danced two country 
dances : as she had enjoined everybody to be with her by six, 
to sup at twelve, and go away directly. The only extraordi- 
nary thing the duchess did was to do nothing extraordinary, 
for I do not call it very mad that some pique happening 
between her and the Duchess of Bedford, the latter had this 
distich sent to her, 

Come with a whistle, and come with a call, 
Come with a good-will, or come not at all. 

. . . If it was not too long to transcribe, I would send you 
an entertaining petition of the periwig-makers to the king, in 
which they complain that men will wear their own hair. 
Should one almost wonder if carpenters were to remonstrate 
that since the peace their trade decays, and that there is no 
more demand for wooden legs ? Apropos, my Lady Hertford's 



Horace Walpole and Gray. 215 

friend, Lady Harriot Vernon, has quarreled with me for 
smiling at the enormous head-gear of her daughter, Lady 
Grosvenor. She came one night to Northumberland House 
with such a display of frizz that it literally spread beyond her 
shoulders. I happened to say it looked as if her parents had 
stinted her in hair before marriage and that she was deter- 
mined to indulge her fancy now. 

Strawberry Hill, March 9, 1765. 
I had time to write but a short rote with the "Castle of Note with the 
Otranto," as your messenger called on me at four o'clock, as I ot^a^nto.*"' 
was going to dine abroad. Your partiality to me and Straw- 
berry have, I hope, inclined you to excuse the wildness of 
the story. You will even have found some traits to put you in 
mind of this place. When you read of the picture quitting its 
panel, did not you recollect the portrait of Lord Falkland, all 
in white, in my gallery ? Shall I even confess to you what was 
the origin of this romance? I waked one morning, in the 
beginning of last June, from a dream, of which all I could 
recover was that I had thought myself in an ancient castle 
(a very natural dream for a head Uke mine filled with Gothic 
story), and that on the uppermost bannister of a great staircase 
I saw a gigantic hand in armor. In the evening I sat down and 
began to write, without knowing in the least what I intended to 
say or relate. The work grew on my hands, and I grew fond 
of it— add, that I was glad to think of anything rather than 
politics. In short, I was so engrossed with my tale, which I 
completed in less than two months, that one evening I wrote 
from the time I had drunk my tea, about six o'clock, till half 
an hour after one in the morning, when my hand and fingers 
were so weary that I could not hold the pen to finish the 
sentence, but left Matilda and Isabella talking in the middle of 
a paragraph. You will laugh at my earnestness ; but if I have 
amused you by retracing with any fidelity the manners of 
ancient days I am content, and give you leave to think me 
as idle as you please. 

A laree part of Walpole' s correspondence was des- 

, , . , f 1 • r ^L ^1. .. Habits of Wal- 

patched at night after his return from the theater or a poie. 
reception. His habits were late. He was a late riser, 
and he often played cards till two or three o' clock in the 



2i6 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 



A retarded 
dinner. 



Famished 
guests. 



morning. Whist he disliked, but gave himself to faro 
while that game was in vogue, and afterward to loo, 
with all the fervor of a devotee. But when not thus 
occupied the hours observed by the fashionable world 
allowed him to retire early to his desk. How different 
those hours were then from what they are now may be 
gathered from Walpole's amusing sketch of a retarded 
dinner, at which he was a sufferer, in 1765 : 

Now for my disaster ; you will laugh at it, though it was 
woful to me. I was to dine at Northumberland House, and 
went a little after hour ; there I found the countess, Lady Betty 
Mackenzie, Lady Strafford ; my Lady Finlater, who was never 
out of Scotland before ; a tall lad of fifteen, her son ; Lord 
Drogheda, and Mr. Worseley. At five arrived Mr. Mitchell, 
who said the Lords had begun to read the Poor-bill, which 
would take at least two hours, and perhaps would debate it 
afterward. We concluded dinner would be called for, it not 
being very precedented for ladies to wait for gentlemen — no 
such thing. Six o'clock came — seven o'clock came — our 
coaches came — well ! we sent them away, and excuses were 
we were engaged. Still the countess's heart did not relent, 
nor uttered a syllable of apology. We wore out the wind and 
the weather, the opera and play, Mrs. Cornely's and Almack's, 
and every topic that would do in a formal circle. We hinted, 
represented — in vain. The clock struck eight : my lady at last 
said she would go and order dinner ; but it was a good half- 
hour before it appeared. We then sat down to a table for four- 
teen covers : but instead of substantials, there was nothing but 
a profusion of plates striped red, green, and yellow, gilt plates, 
blacks, and uniforms ! My Lady Finlater, who had never seen 
these embroidered dinners, nor dined after three, was fam- 
ished. The first course stayed as long as possible, in hopes of 
the lords ; so did the second. The dessert arrived at last, and 
the middle dish was actually set on when Lord Finlater and 
Mr. Mackay arrived ! Would you believe it ? — the dessert was 
remanded, and the whole first course brought back again. 
. . . When the clock struck eleven I said I was engaged to 
supper and came home to bed. 



Horace Walpole and Gray. 



217 



In 1770, Walpole descants on the extravagance of the 
age. 

What do you think of a winter-Ranelagh erecting in Oxford 
Road, at the expense of sixty thousand pounds ? The new 
bank, including the value of the ground and of the houses de- 
molished to make room for it, will cost three hundred thou- 
sand ; and erected, as my Lady Townley says, by sober citizens, 
too ! I have touched before to you on the incredible profusion 
of our young men of fashion. I know a younger brother who 
literally gives a flower-woman half a guinea every morning for 
a bunch of roses for the nose-gay in his button-hole. There 
has lately been an auction of stuffed birds ; and, as natural his- 
tory is in fashion, there are physicians and others who paid 
forty and fifty guineas for a single Chinese pheasant ; you may 
buy a live one for five. After this, it is not extraordinary that 
pictures should be dear. We have at present three exhibitions. 
•One West, who paints history in the taste of Poussin, gets 
three hundred pounds for a piece not too large to hang over a 
chimney. He has merit, but is hard and heavy, and far 
unworthy of such prices. The rage to see these exhibitions is 
so great that sometimes one cannot pass through the streets 
where they are. But it is incredible what sums are raised by 
mere exhibitions of anything — a new fashion ; and to enter at 
which you pay a shilling or half a crown. Another rage is for 
prints of English portraits : I have been collecting them for 
over thirty years, and originally never gave for a mezzotinto 
above one or two shillings. The lowest are now a crown ; most, 
from half a guinea to a guinea. Then we have Etruscan vases, 
made of earthenware, in Staffordshire (by Wedgwood) from 
two to five guineas ; and or monlu, never made here before, 
which succeeds so well that a tea-kettle, which the inventor 
offered for one hundred guineas, sold by auction for one hundred 
and thirty. In short, we are at the height of extravagance and 
improvements, for we do improve rapidly in taste as well as in 
the former. I cannot say so much for our genius. Poetry is 
gone to bed, or into our prose ; we are like the Romans in that 
too. If we have the arts of the Antonines, we have the 
fustian also. 



Extravagance 
of the age. 



Its improve- 
ments. 



In July, 1770, Walpole received a command to attend 



2 1 8 Me7i and Mariners of the Eighteenth Centziry. 



Princess 
Amelia. 



A small 
Vauxhall. 



the Princess Amelia on a visit to Stowe. He describes 
what occurred to George Montagu : 

We breakfasted at half an hour after nine ; but the princess 
did not appear till it was finished ; then we walked in the 
garden, or drove about in cabriolets till it was time to dress ; 
dined at three, which, though properly proportioned to the 
smallness of the company to avoid ostentation, lasted a vast 
while, as the princess eats and talks a great deal ; then again 
into the garden till past seven, when we came in, drank tea and 
coffee, and played at pharaoh till ten, when the princess retired, 
and we went to supper, and before twelve to bed. You will see 
there was great sameness and little vivacity in all this. It was 
broken a little by fishing, and going round the park one of the 
mornings ; but, in reality, the number of buildings and variety 
of scenes in the garden made each day different from the rest, 
and my meditations on so historic a spot prevented my being 
tired. Every acre brings to one's mind some instance of 
the parts or pedantry, of the taste or want of taste, of the 
ambition or love of fame, or greatness or miscarriages, of those 
that have inhabited, decorated, planned, or visited the place. 

On Wednesday night a small Vauxhall was acted for us at 
the grotto in the Elysian Fields, which was illuminated with 
lamps, as were the thicket and two little barks on the lake. 
With a little exaggeration I could make you believe that noth- 
ing ever was so delightful. The idea was really pretty ; but as 
my feelings have lost something of their romantic sensibility, I 
did not quite enjoy such an entertainment alfresco so much as 
I should have done twenty years ago. The evening was more 
than cool and the destined spot anything but dry. There were 
not half lamps enough, and no music but an ancient militiaman, 
who played cruelly on a squeaking tabor and pipe. As our 
procession descended the vast flight of steps into the garden, 
in which was assembled a crowd of people from Buckingham 
and the neighboring villages to see the princess and the show, 
the moon shining very bright, I could not help laughing as I 
surveyed our troop, which, instead of tripping lightly to such 
an Arcadian entertainment, were hobbling down by the balus- 
trades, wrapped up in cloaks and great-coats, for fear of catching 
cold. The earl, you know, is bent double, the countess very 
lame ; I am a miserable walker, and the princess, though as 



Horace Walpole and Gray. 219 

strong as a Brunswick lion, makes no figure in going down 
fifty stone stairs. Except Lady Anne, and by courtesy Lady slight an- 
Mary, we were none of us young enough for a pastoral. We "oyances. 
supped in the grotto, which is as proper to this climate as a sea- 
coal fire would be in the dog-days at Tivoli. 



Anecdote of 



CHAPTER XXII. 

In 1773 Walpole gives an anecdote about Garrick 
and Goldsmith ; it is the year before Goldsmith died. 

I dined and passed Saturday at Beauclerks' with the Edge- 
Garricic and combes, the Garricks, and Dr. Goldsmith, and was most 
° ^'"' ■ thoroughly tried, as I knew I should be, I who hate playing off 

a butt. Goldsmith is a fool, the more wearying for having 
some sense. It was the night of a new comedy, called "The 
School for Wives," which was exceedingly applauded, and, 
which Charles Fox says is execrable. Garrick has at least the 
chief hand in it. I never saw anybody in a greater fidget, nor 
more vain when he returned, for he went to the play-house at 
half past five, and we sate waiting for him till tea, when he was 
to act a speech in " Cato " with Goldsmith ! That is, the latter 
sate in t'other's lap, covered with a cloak, and while Gold- 
smith spoke Garrick's arms, that embraced him, made foolish 
actions. How could one laugh when one had expected this for 
four hours ! 

In a letter to Horace Mann, dated November 24, 
1774, he writes : 

Don't tell me I am grown old and peevish and supercilious — 
A prophecy. name the geniuses of 1774 and I submit. The next Augustan 
age will dawn on the other side of the Atlantic. There will, 
perhaps, be a Thucydides at Boston, a Xenophon at New 
York, and in time a Virgil at Mexico, and a Newton at Peru, 
At last some curious traveler from Lima will visit England and 
give a description of the ruins of St. Paul's, like the editions of 
Balbec and Palmyra ; but am I not prophesying, contrary to my 
usual prudence, and casting horoscopes of empires like Rous- 
seau ? 'Tis well, I will go and dream my visions. 

Walpole' s traveler from Lima has often been quoted 
as the original of Macaulay's "New Zealander, " stand- 
ing on London Bridge in a vast solitude to sketch the 



Horace Walpole and Gray. 



221 



ruins of St. Paul's. But Macaulay invented his New 

Zealander in 1840, whereas the extract above given is l^fl^^"'^^'^, 
~ ' fc> " New Zeal- 

taken from Walpole' s correspondence with Mann and ander." 

was first published from the original manuscripts only 
in 1843. 

The letters keep on, with the same persevering liveli- 
ness, from 3^ear to year ; in 1781 he writes : 

I saw Dr. Johnson last night (then seventy-two years old) at 
Lady Lucan's, who had assembled a blue-stocking meeting in 
imitation of Mrs. Vesey's babels. It was so blue, it was quite 
Mazarine blue. Mrs. Montagu kept aloof from Johnson, like 
the West from the East. 

This is not our Lady Mary (who died in 1762), but a 
lady who originated the "Blue-stocking Club," one of stocking "club.' 
the pet dislikes of Horace. He writes about the same 
time : 

I met Mrs. Montagu t'other night at a visit. She said she 
had been alone the whole preceding day, quite hermetically 
sealed. I was very glad she was uncorked, or I might have 
missed that piece of nonsense. She is one of my principal 
entertainments at Mrs. Vesey's, who collects all the graduates 
and candidates for fame, where they vie with one another till 
they are as unintelligible as the good folks at babel. 

From Strawberry Hill, in August, 1782, he writes : 

Drowned as we are, the country never was in such beauty ; 
the herbage and leafage are luxurious. The Thames gives 
itself Rhone airs, and almost foams ; it is none of your home- 
brewed rivers that Mr. Brown makes with a spade and a water- 
ing-pot. Apropos, Mr. Duane, like a good housewife, in the 
middle of his grass-plot, has planted a pump and watering 
trough for his cow, and I suppose on Saturdays dries his towels 
and neckcloths on his orange-trees ; but I must have done, or 
the post will be gone. 



At the end of 1782 Mrs. Siddons was the talk of the Mrs. siddons 
town. Prejudiced as Walpole was apt to be in his judg- towru 



22 2 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 



Walpole's 
opinion of her. 



Modest and 
sensible. 



ments of actors, as of authors, his impressions of this 
famous actress will be read with interest. 

I have been -in town two days, and seen Mrs. Siddons. She 
pleased me beyond my expectation, but not up to the admira- 
tion of the ton^ two or three of whom were in the same box 
with me. Mr. Crawford asked me if I did not think her the 
best actress I ever saw ? I said, " By no means ; we old folks 
were apt to be prejudiced in favor of our first impressions." 
She is a good figure, handsome enough, though neither nose nor 
chin according to the Greek standard, beyond which they both 
advance a good deal. Her hair is either red, or she has no ob- 
jection to its being thought so, and had used red powder. Her 
voice is clear and good ; but I thought she did not vary its 
modulations enough, nor ever approach enough to the familiar 
— but this may come when more habituated to the awe of the 
audience of the capital. Her action is proper, but with little 
variety ; when without motion, her arms are not genteel. 
Thus you see all my objections are very trifling ; but what I 
really wanted, but did not find, was originality, which an- 
nounces genius, and without both I am never intrinsically 
pleased. All Mrs. Siddons did, good sense or good instruction 
might give. I dare to say that were I one and twenty, I should 
have thought her marvelous ; but, alas ! I remember Mrs. Por- 
ter and the Dumesnil — and remember every accent of the for- 
mer in the very same part. Yet this is not entirely prejudice : 
don't I equally recollect the whole progress of Lord Chatham 
and Charles Townshend, and does it hinder my thinking Mr. 
Fox a prodigy ? Pray don't send him this paragraph. 

Again : 

Mrs. Siddons continues to be the mode, and to be modest 
and sensible. She declines great dinners, and says her business 
and the cares of her family take up her whole time. When 
Lord Carlisle carried her the tribute money from Brooks's, he 
said she was not maniirSe enough. " I suppose she was grate- 
ful," said my niece, Lady Maria. Mrs. Siddons was desired to 
play "Medea" and "Lady Macbeth." "No," she rephed, 
"she did not look on them as female characters." She was 
questioned about her transactions with Garrick : she said, 
" He did nothing but put her out ; that he told her she moved 



Horace Walpole and Gray. 223 

her right hand when it should have been her left. In short," 
said she, " I found I must not shade the tip of his nose." 

The recent invention of air balloons (1784) was at invention of 
this time exciting general interest. He says : ^"^ ^ °°"^' 

This enormous capital that must have some occupation is 
most innocently amused with those philosophic playthings. An 
Italian, one Lunardi, is the first air-go-naut that has mounted 
into the clouds in this country. He is said to have bought three 
or four thousand pounds in the stocks, by exhibiting his person, 
his balloon, and his dog and his cat, at the Pantheon for a 
shilling a visitor. Blanchard, a Frenchman, is his rival ; and I 
expect that they will soon have an air fight in the clouds like a 
stork and a kite. 

In 1785 he reports from Strawberry Hill : 

Dr. Burney and his daughter Evelina-Cecilia have passed a 
day and a half with me. He is lively and agreeable ; she half 
and half sense and modesty, which possess her so entirely that 
not a cranny is left for affectation or pretension. Oh ! Mrs. 
Montagu, you are not above half as accomplished. 

To the end of his life, although much crippled by gout, 
Walpole retained his love for life and movement. He 
received a visit from Queen Charlotte at Strawberry QiTeenChar- 
Hill as late as the summer of 1795. He sends an 

account of it to Conway : » 

Strawberry. 
As you are, or have been in town, your daughter (Mrs. 
Damer) will have told you in what a bustle I am, preparing, 
not to visit, but to receive an invasion of royalties to-morrow ; 
and cannot even escape them, like Admiral Cornwallis, though 
seeming to make a semblance ; for I am to wear a sword, and 
have appointed my two aides-de-camp, my nephews, George 
and Horace Churchill. If \ fall, as ten to one but I do, to be 
sure it will be a superb tumble, at the feet of a queen, and eight 
daughters of kings ; for besides the six princesses, I am to have 
the Duchess of York and the Princess of Orange ! Woe is me, 
at seventy-eight, and with scarce a hand and foot to my back ! 
Adieu ! Yours, etc., 

A Poor Old Remnant. 



224 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 



The last letter. 



His retired life. 



He adds later : 

I am not dead of fatigue with my royal visitors, as I expected 
to be, though I was on my poor lame feet three whole hours. 
Your daughter, who kindly assisted me in doing the honors, 
will tell you the particulars, and how prosperously I succeeded. 
,The queen was uncommonly condescending and gracious, and 
deigned to drink my health when I presented her with the last 
glass, and to thank me for all my attentions. Indeed, my mem- 
ory de la vieille cour was but once in default. As I had been 
assured that Her Majesty would be atten'ded by her chamber- 
lain, yet was not, I had no glove ready when I received her at 
the step of her coach ; yet she honored me with her hand to 
lead her up stairs ; nor did I recollect my omission when I 
led her down again. Still, though gloveless, I did not squeeze 
the royal hand, as vice-chamberlain did to Queen Mary. 

The last letter from Horace Walpole was addressed to 
Lady Ossory, then almost the sole survivor of his early 
friends : 

My Dear Madam : You distress me infinitely by showing my 
idle notes, which I cannot conceive can amuse anybody. My 
old-fashioned breeding impels me every now and then to reply 
to the letters you honor me with writing, but in truth very 
unwillingly, for I seldom can have anything particular to say ; 
I scarce go out of my own house, and then only to two or three 
private places, where I see nobody that really knows anything, 
and what I learn comes from newspapers, that collect intelli- 
gence from coffee-houses ; consequently what I neither believe 
nor report. At home I see only a i&v^ charitable elders, except 
about four-score nephews and nieces of various ages, who are 
brought to me about once a year, to stare at me as the Methu- 
saleh of the family, and they can speak only of their contem- 
poraries, which interest me no more than if they talked of their 
dolls, or bats and balls. Must not the result of this, madam, 
make me a very entertaining correspondent ? And can such 
letters be worth showing ? or can I have any spirit when so old, 
and am reduced to dictate ? 

Oh ! my good madam, dispense with me from such a task, 
and think how it must add to it to apprehend such letters being 
shown. Pray send me no more such laurels, which I desire no 



Ho7'ace Walpole and Gray. 225 

more than their leaves when decked with a scrap of tinsel, and 
stuck on twelfth cakes that lie on the shop-boards of pastry- 
cooks at Christmas. I shall be quite content with a sprig of 
rosemary thrown after me, when the parson of the parish com- 
mits my dust to dust. Till then, pray, madam, accept the 
resignation of your ancient servant, Orford. 

Walpole in 1772 was thus described : His figure was 
not merely tall, but more properly long and slender to Personal 

■^ , 1 1 ./ o ^ appearance. 

excess. His eyes were remarkably bright and pene- 
trating, his voice extremely pleasant. He always en- 
tered a room in that style of affected delicacy which 
fashion had then made almost natural, chapeau bas 
between his hands, or under his arm, knees bent, and 
feet on tiptoe as if afraid of a wet floor. His dress 
in summer was a lavender suit, the waistcoat embroid- 
ered with a little silver, or of white silk worked in the 
tambour ; partridge silk stockings, and gold buckles, 
ruffles and frills, generally lace. In summer no powder, 
but his wig combed straight and queued behind, show- 
ing his very smooth forehead. 



CHAPTER XXIII. 



Ways of 
Thomas Gray. 



Manuscript 
of the " Elegy. 



By the side of Horace Walpole's butterfly existence 
the even tenor of the ways of Thomas Gray is in con- 
trast. His hfe was passed in alternating between Cam- 
bridge and Stoke, where his home was, West End 
House, a simple farmstead of two stories, with a rustic 
porch before the front door. It was here that he 
finished the ' ' Elegy in a Country Churchyard, ' ' and 
here that he received the visit which made him write 
"The Long Story," for a long time unpublished, as 
Gray considered its allusions too personal for the public. 
It is, as Mr. Gosse says, "excellent fooling," and inter- 
esting as a picture of Gray's home life. 

In his "Life of Gray" Mr. Gosse goes on to tell 
how, at the manor house at Stoke, Lady Cobham, who 
seems to have known Horace Walpole, read the " Elegy 
in a Country Churchyard" in manuscript before it had 
been many months in existence, and conceived a violent 
desire to know the author. So quiet was Gray, and so 
little inclined to assert his own personality, that she was 
unaware that he and she had lived in the same country 
parish for several years, until Rev. Mr. Robert Purt, 
a Cambridge fellow, settled at Stoke, told her that 
' ' thereabouts there lurked a wicked imp they call a 
poet." Mr. Purt, however, enjoyed a very slight ac- 
quaintance with Gray (he was offended shortly after- 
ward at the introduction of his name into ' ' The Long 
Story" and very properly died of small-pox immedi- 
ately), and could not venture to introduce him to her 
ladyship. Lady Cobham, however, had a guest staying 

226 



Horace Walpole and Gray. 227 

with her, a Lady Schaub, who knew a friend of Gray's, 
a Lady Brown, On this very meager introduction 
Lady Schaub and Miss Speed, the niece of Lady Cob- 
ham, were persuaded by her ladyship, who shot her andhS^gues?. 
arrow like Teucer from behind the shield of Ajax, to 
call boldly upon Gray. They did so in the summer 
of 1751, but when they had crossed the fields to West 
End House they found that the poet had gone out 
for a walk. They begged the ladies to say nothing of 
their visit, but they left amongst the papers in Gray's 
study this piquant httle note : " Lady Schaub' s compli- 
ments to Mr. Gray ,• she is sorry not to have found him 
at home, to tell him that Lady Brown is quite well." 

This little adventure assumed the hues of mystery and 
romance in so uneventful a life as Gray's, and curiosity 
combined with good manners to make him put his shy- 
ness in his pocket and return Lady Schaub' s polite but 
eccentric call. That far-reaching spider, the Viscountess 
Cobhani, had now fairly caught him in her web, and for „ 

' . . Caught in 

the remaining nine years of her life she and her niece, a web. 
Miss Speed, were his fast friends. Indeed, his whole 
life might have been altered if Lady Cobham had had 
her way, for it seems certain that she would have been 
highly pleased to have seen him the husband of Harriet 
Speed and inheritor of the fortunes of the family. At 
one time Gray seems to have been really frightened lest 
they should marry him suddenly, against his will ; and 
perhaps he almost wished they would. At all events, 
the only lines of his which can be called amatory were 
addressed to Miss Speed. She was seven years his 
junior, and when she was nearly forty she married a 
verj' young French ofHcer, and went to live abroad. 

The romantic incidents of the call just described in- 
Spired Gray with his fantastic account of them given in 



228 Men ajid Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 

"The Long Story." He dwells on the ancient seat of 
"The Long ^^ Huntingfdons and Hattons, from the door of which 

Story." Sj ' 

one morning issued 

A brace of warriors, not in buff, 

But rustling in their silks and tissues. 

The first came cap-a-pie from France, 
Her conquering destiny fulfilling. 

Whom meaner beauties eye askance, 
And vainly ape her art of kilHng. 

The other Amazon kind Heaven 

Had armed with spirit, wit, and satire ; 

But Cobham had the polish given, 
And tipped her arrows with good-nature. 

With bonnet blue and capuchine. 

And aprons long, they hid their armor ; 

And veiled their weapons, bright and keen. 
In pity to the country farmer. 

These warriors sallied forth in the cause of a lady 

Amazon . i i • 

warriors. of high degree, who had just heard that the parish 

contained a poet, and who 

Swore by her coronet. and ermine 

She'd issue out her high commission 
To rid the manor of such vermin. 

At last they discovered his lowly haunt, and bounce in 
without so much as a tap at his door : 

The trembling family they daunt, 
They flirt, they sing, they laugh, they tattle ; 

Rummage his mother, pinch his aunt, 
And up-stairs in a whirlwind rattle. 

Each hole and cupboard they explore, 
Each creek and cranny of his chamber, 

Run hurry-scurry round the floor. 
And o'er the bed and tester chamber. 

Into the drawers and china pry. 

Papers and books, a huge imbroglio ; 



Horace Walpole and Gray. 229 



Under a teacup he might He, 
Or creased, like dog's-ears, in a folio. 

The pitying Muses, however, have conveyed him 

away, and the proud Amazons are obliged to retreat ; 'T'^^"' retreat. 

but they have a mahgnity to leave a spell behind them, 

which their victim finds when he slinks back to his 

home : 

The words too eager to unriddle 

The poet felt a strange disorder ; 
Transparent bird-lime formed the middle, 

And chains invisible the border. 

So cunning was the apparatus. 

The powerful pot-hooks did so move him. 
That, will he nill he, to the great house. 

He went as if the devil drove him. 

When he arrives at the manor house, of course, he is 
dragged before the great lady, and is only saved from 
destruction by her sudden fit of clemency : 

The ghostly prudes with haggard face 

Already had condemned the sinner. 
My lady rose, and with a grace — 

She smiled, and bid him come to dinner. 

To show how playful Gray could be on occasions the 
delightful letter to Walpole is quoted entire in which 
first appeared the lines " on a favorite cat," drowned in 

a tub of gold-fishes. 

Cambridge, March i, 1747. 
As one ought to be particularly careful to avoid blunders in a 
letter of condolence, it would be a sensible satisfaction to me, 
before I testify my sorrow and the sincere part I take in your 
misfortune, to know for whom it is I lament. I knew Zara and to^Walpole? 
Selima (Selima, was it? or Fatima?), or rather I knew them 
both together ; for I cannot justly say which was which. Then 
as to your "handsome cat," the name you distinguish her by, 
I am no less at a loss, as well knowing one's handsome cat is 
always the cat one loves best ; or if one be alive and one dead, 
it is usually the latter which is the handsomest. Besides, if the 



230 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 

point were never so clear, I hope you do not think me so ill-bred 
or so imprudent as to forfeit all my interest in the survivor ; oh, 
no ! I would rather seem to mistake, and imagine to be sure 
it must be the tabby one that had met with sad accident. Till 
■ this matter is a little better determined, you will excuse me if I 
do not begin to cry — "Tempus inane peto, requiem, spatium- 
cjue doloris." Which interval is the more convenient, as it 
gives me time to rejoice with you on your new honors [Wal- 
pole had just been elected F. R. S.]. This is only a beginning ; 
I reckon next week we shall hear you, are a Freemason. 
Heigh-ho ! I feel (as you, to be sure, have long since) that I 
have very little to say, at least in prose. Somebody will be 
the better for it ; I do not mean you, but your cat, feiie 
Mademoiselle Selime, whom I am about to immortalize for 
one week or fortnight, as follows : 

Twas on a lofty vase's side 
diafh of a^^ Where China's gayest art had dyed 

favorite cat. The azure flowers that blow, 

The pensive Selima reclined, 

Demurest of the tabby kind. 
Gazed on the lake below. 

Her conscious tail her joy declared : 
The fair round face, the snowy beard, 

The velvet of her paws, 
Her coat that with the tortoise vies, 
Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes — 

She saw and purr'd applause. 

Still had she gazed, but 'midst the tide 
Two beauteous forms were seen to glide, 

The genii of the stream ; 
Their scaly armor's Tyrian hue 
Through richest purple to the view 

Betray'd a golden gleam. 

The hapless nymph with wonder saw : 
A whisker first, and then a claw 

With many an ardent wish 
She stretch'd, in vain, to reach the prize— 
What female heart can gold despise ? 

What cat's averse to fish ? 



Horace Waipole and Gray. 



231 



The fatal slip. 



Presumptuous maid ! with looks intent 
Again she stretched, again she bent, 

Nor knew the gulf between — 
(Malignant fate sat by and smiled) 
The slipp'ry verge her feet beguiled ; 

She tumbled headlong in ! 

Eight times emerging from the flood 
She mewed to ev'ry wat'ry god 

Some speedy aid to send : — 
No dolphin came, no nereid stirr'd, 
No cruel Tom nor Susan heard — 

What favorite has a friend ! 

From hence, ye beauties ! undeceived. 
Know one false step is ne'er retrieved, 

And be with caution bold : 
Not all that tempts your wand 'ring eyes 
And heedless hearts, is lawful prize. 

Nor all that glisters, gold ! 

Here is an extract from Waipole' s "Castle of ..j,^^^,^^^ 
Otranto." One is enough to give a hint of its terrors, otranto." 

Young Conrad's birthday was fixed for his espousals. The 
company was assembled in the chapel of the castle, and every- 
thing ready for beginning the divine office, when Conrad him- 
self was missing. Manfred, impatient of the least delay, and 
who had not observed his son retire, despatched one of his at- 
tendants to summon the young prince. The servant, who had 
not staid long enough to have crossed the court to Conrad's 
apartment, came running back breathless, in a frantic manner, 
his eyes staring, and foaming at the mouth. He said nothing, 
but pointed at the court. The company were struck with 
terror and amazement. The Princess Hippolita, without know- 
ing what was the matter, but anxious for her son, swooned 
away. Manfred, less apprehensive than enraged at the pro- 
crastination of the nuptials, and at the folly of his domestic, 
asked imperiously what was the matter ? The fellow made no 
answer, but continued pointing toward the court-yard ; and at 
last, after repeated questions put to him, cried out, "Oh! the 
helmet ! the helmet ! " In the meantime some of the company 



helmet. 



232 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 

had run into the -court, from whence was heard a confused 
noise of shrieks, horror, and surprise. Manfred, who began to 
be alarmed at not seeing his son, went himself to get informa- 
tion of what occasioned this strange confusion. Matilda re- 
mained, endeavoring to assist her mother, and Isabella staid 
for the same purpose, and to avoid showing any impatience for 
the bridegroom, for whom, in truth, she had conceived little 
affection. 
The first thing that struck Manfred's eyes was a group of his 
The terrible servants endeavoring to raise something that appeared to him a 
mountain of sable plumes. He gazed without believing his 
sight. ' ' What are ye doing ? ' ' cried Manfred wrathfully ; 
"where is my son?" A volley of voices replied, "Oh! my 
lord ! the prince ! the prince ! the helmet ! the helmet ! " 
Shocked with these lamentable sounds, and dreading he knew 
not what, he advanced hastily — but what a sight for a father's 
eyes ! he beheld his child dashed to pieces, and almost buried 
under an enormous helmet, an hundred times more large than 
any casque ever made for human beings, and shaded with as 
proportionable number of black feathers. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

Horace Walpole and His World. L. B. Seeley, M. A. 

Macaulay's Essay on Horace Walpole. 

Thomas Gray. Edmund Wi Gosse. (English Men of 
Letters. ) 

Castle of Otranto. Horace Walpole. Mrs. Barbauld's 
British Novelists, Vol. 22. 

Vicar of Wakefield. Oliver Goldsmith. British Novelists, 
Vol. 23. 



BOOK VIII. 
EVELINA AND DR. JOHNSON. 



CHAPTER XXIV. 

Queen Anne Street, London, Saturday, April 2d. 

This moment arrived. Just going to Drury Lane Theater. 
The celebrated Mr. Garrick performs Ranger. I am quite in 
ecstasy. So is Miss Mirvan. How fortunate that he should 
happen to play ! We would not let Mrs. Mirvan rest till she 
consented to go. Her chief objection was to our dress, for we 
have had no time to Londonize ourselves ; but we teased her 
into compliance, and so we are to sit in some obscure place 
that she may not be seen. As to me, I should be alike 
unknown in the most conspicuous or most private part of the 
house. 

I can write no more now. I have hardly time to breathe — 
only just this, the houses and streets are not quite so superb 
as I expected. However, I have seen nothing yet, so I ought 
not to judge. 

Well ; adieu, my dearest sir, for the present ; I could not for- 
bear writing a few words instantly on my arrival, though I 
suppose my letter of thanks for your consent is still on the 
road. 

Saturday night. 

O, my dear sir, in what raptures am I returned ! Well may 
Mr. Garrick be so celebrated, so universally admired — I had 
not any idea of so great a performer. 

Such ease ! such vivacity in his manner ! such grace in his 
motions ! such fire and meaning in his eyes i — I could hardly 
believe he had studied a written part, for every word seemed 
to be uttered from the impulse of the moment. 

His action — at once so graceful and so free ! — his voice — so 
clear, so melodious, yet so wonderfully various in its tones ! — 
Such animation ! — every look speaks ! 

233 



Opening 
chapter of 

" Evelina." 



Performance 
of Garrick. 



234 Men and Man^iers of the Eighteenth Centiiry. 

I would have given the world to have had the whole play 
acted over again. And when he danced — O, how I envied 
Clarinda ! I almost wished to have Jumped on the stage and 
joined them. 

I am afraid you will think me mad, so I won't say any more ; 
yet, I really believe Mr. Garrick would make you mad too if 
you could see him. I intend to ask Mrs. Mirvan to go to 
the play every night while we stay in town. She is extremely 
kind to me ; and Maria, her charming daughter, is the sweetest 
girl in the world. 

Garrick took leave of the stage on the loth of June, 
1776, one year and a half before the publication of 
"Evelina." Ranger and Clarinda are characters in 
"The Suspicious Husband," a comedy by Dr. Benja- 
Garrick's "^'^ Hoadley. Garrick died in 1779 ; with him, accord- 

death, ing to Dr. Barney, "Nature and Shakespeare together 

expired." 

Monday, April 4th. 

We are to go this evening to a private ball, given by Mrs, 
Stanley, a very fashionable lady of Mrs, Mirvan's acquaintance. 

We have been a shopping, as Mrs. Mirvan calls it, all this 
morning, to buy silks, caps, gauzes, and so forth. 

The shops are very entertaining, especially the mercers ; there 
seem to be six or seven men belonging to each shop ; and 
every one took care, by bowing and smirking, to be noticed. 
I thought I should never have chosen a silk, for they produced 
so many, I knew not which to fix upon ; and they recommended 
them all so strongly, that I fancy they thought I only wanted 
persuasion to buy everything they showed me. And indeed 
they took so much trouble that I was almost ashamed I could 
not. 

I have just had my hair dressed. You can't think how oddly 

'my head feels; full of powder and black pins, and a great 

Pins and cushion on the top of it. I believe you would hardly know me, 

powder. ^■qj. ^^^ ^^^^ looks quite different to what it did before my hair 

was dressed. 

I am half afraid of this ball to-night, for you know I have 
never danced but at school ; however, Miss Mirvan says there is 



Evelina and Dr. Johnson. 235 

nothing in it. Adieu, my dear sir. Poor Miss Mirvan cannot 
wear one of her caps, because they dress her hair too large. 

Queen Anne Street, April ^, Tuesday morning. 

I have a vast deal to say, and shall give all this morning to 
my pen. As to my plan of writing every evening the adven- 
tures of the day, I find it impracticable ; for the diversions here 
are so very late that if I begin my letters after them I could not 
go to bed at all. 

We passed a most extraordinary evening. K private ball this 
was called, so I expected to have seen about four or five A private ball, 
couple , but Lord ! my dear sir, I believe I saw half the world ! 
Two very large rooms were full of company ; in one were cards 
for the elderly ladies, and in the other were the dancers. My 
mamma Mirvan, for she always calls me her child, said she 
would sit with Maria and me till we were provided with part- 
ners, and then join the card-players. 

The gentlemen, as they passed and repassed, looked as if 
they thought we were quite at their disposal, and 'only waiting 
for the honor of their commands ; and they sauntered about, in 
a careless, indolent manner, as if with a view to keep us in sus- 
pense. I don't speak of this in regard to Miss Mirvan and 
myself only, but to the ladies in general ; and I thought it so 
provoking that I determined in my own mind that, far from 
humoring such airs, I would rather not dance at all than with 
any one who should seem to think me ready to accept the first 
partner who would condescend to take me. 

Not long after, a young man who had for some time looked 
at us with a kind of negligent impertinence advanced on tiptoe 
toward me ; he had a set smile on his face, and his dress was so 
foppish that I really believe he- even wished to be stared at ; 
and yet he was very ugly. 

Bowing almost to the ground with a sort of swing and wav- 
ing his hand with the greatest conceit, after a short and silly 
pause, he said, " Madam — may I presume?" — and stopt, oiTer- 
ing to take my hand. I drew it back, but could scarce forbear 
laughing. "Allow me, madam," continued he, affected by 
breaking off every half moment, "the honor and happiness — if 
I am not so unhappy as to address you too late — to have the 
happiness and honor — " 

Again he would have taken my hand, but, bowing my head, I 



The fop Lovel. 



236 Me7i and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 



Lord Orville. 



Evelina's 
Shyness. 



begged to be excused, and turned to Miss Mirvan to conceal 
my laughter. He then desired to know if I had already- 
engaged myself to some more fortunate man? I said, No, 
and that I believed I should not dance at all. He then re- 
treated. 

Very soon after another gentleman who seemed about six 
and twenty years old, gaily but not foppishly dressed, and 
indeed extremely handsome, with an air of mixed politeness 
and gallantry desired to know if I was engaged, or would 
honor him with my hand. 

Well, I bowed, and I am sure I colored — for indeed I was 
frightened at the thoughts of dancing before so many people all 
strangers, and, which was worse, with a stranger. But he took 
my hand, and led me to join in the dance. 

The minuets were over before we arrived, for we were kept 
late by the milliners making us wait for our things. 

He seemed very desirous of entering into conversation with 
me ; but I could hardly speak a word, and nothing but shame 
prevented my returning to my seat and declining to dance at all. 

He appeared to be surprised at my terror, which I believe 
was but too apparent : however, he asked no questions, though 
I fear he must think it very strange, for I did not choose to tell 
him it was owing to my never before dancing but with a 
school-girl. 

His conversation was sensible and spirited ; his air and ad- 
dress were open and noble ; his manners gentle, attentive, and 
infinitely engaging ; his person is all elegance, and his coun- 
tenance the most animated and expressive I have ever seen. 

In a short time we were joined by Miss Mirvan, who stood 
next couple to us. But how was I startled when she whispered 
me that my partner was a nobleman ! This gave me a new 
alarm : how will he be provoked, thought I, when he finds 
what a simple rustic he has honored with his choice ! one 
^ whose ignorance of the world makes her perpetually fear doing 
something wrong ! 

That he should be so much my superior every way quite dis- 
concerted me ; and you will suppose my spirits were not much 
raised when I heard a lady, in passing us, say, "This is the 
most difficult dance I ever saw." 

"O dear, then," cried Maria to her partner, "with your 
leave, I'll sit down till the next," 



Evelina and Dr. Johnson. 



237 



Consequent em- 
barrassment. 



"So will I too, then," cried I, "for I am sure I can hardly 
stand." 

" But you must speak to your partner first," answered she ; 
for he had turned aside to talk with some gentlemen. How- rudeness, 
ever, I had not sufficient courage to address him ; and so away 
we all three tript and seated ourselves at another end of the 
room. 

This brought Evelina into difficulties, for her partner 
was seeking for her, and before long found and ap- 
proached her. 

, He begged to know if I was not well ? You may easily im- 
agine how much I was embarrassed. I made no answer ; but 
hung my head like a fool and looked on my fan. 

He then, with an air the most respectfully serious, asked 
if he had been so unhappy as to offend me ? 

" No, indeed ! " cried I ; and in hopes of changing the dis- 
course, and preventing his further inquiries, I desired to know 
if he had seen the young lady who had been conversing 
with me ? 

No ; — but would I honor him with any commands to her ? 

" O, by no means ! " 

Was there any other person with whom I wished to speak ? 

I said No, before I knew I had answered at all. 

Should he have the pleasure of bringing me any refreshment ? 

I bowed, almost involuntarily. And away he flew. 

I was quite ashamed of being so troublesome, and so much Gallantry of 
above myself as these seeming airs made me appear ; but Lord Orville, 
indeed I was too much confused to think or act with any 
consistency. 

If he had not been as swift as lightning, I don't know whether 
I should not have stolen away again ; but he returned in a 
moment. When I had drank a glass of lemonade, he hoped, 
he said, that I would again honor him with my hand, as a new 
dance was just begun. I had not the presence of mind to say a 
single word, and so I let him once more lead me to the place I 
had left. 

When the dance was over, seeing me still very much flurried, 
he led me to a seat, saying that he would not suffer me to 
fatigue myself from politeness. 



238 Me7i and Majiners of the Eighteenth Centtiry. 



The fop again. 



Rules of an 

assembly. 



We were sitting in this manner, he conversing with all gaiety, 
I looking down with all foolishness, when that fop, his name 
was Lovel, who had first asked me to dance, with a most 
ridiculous solemnity approached, and, after a profound bow or 
two, said, "I humbly beg pardon, madam — and of you too, my 
lord — for breaking in upon such agreeable conversation — which 
miist, doubtless, be more delectable — than what I have the 
honor to offer — but — ' ' 

I interrupted him — I blush for my folly — with laughing ; yet I 
could not help it ; for, added to the man's stately foppishness 
(and he actually took snuff between every three words), when I 
looked round at Lord Orville, I saw such extreme surprise 
in his face, the cause of which appeared so absurd that I 
could not for my life preserve my gravity. 

I had not laughed before from the time I had left Miss 
Mirvan, and I had much better have cried then ; Lord Orville 
actually stared at me ; the beau, I know not his name, looked 
quite enraged. "Refrain — madam," said he, with an important 
air, "a few moments refrain ! — I have but a sentence to trouble 
you with. — May I know to what accident I must attribute not 
having the honor of your hand ? " 

" Accident, sir ! " repeated I, much astonished. 

"Yes, accident, madam; — for surely — I must take the 
liberty to observe — pardon me, madam — it ought to be no 
common one — that should tempt a lady — so young a one too — 
to be guilty of ill manners." 

A confused idea now for the first time entered my head, 
of something I had heard of the rules of an assembly ; but 
I was never at one before — I have only danced at school — and 
so giddy and heedless I was, that I had not once considered 
the impropriety of refusing one partner and afterward accepting 
another. I was thunderstruck at the recollection : but, while 
these thoughts were rushing into my head. Lord Orville, with 
,some warmth, said, "This lady, sir, is incapable of meriting 
such an accusation ! " 



Evelina, indeed, had showed ignorance of the first 
rules of politeness, and Lord Orville, later, had some 
trouble with Lovel, the fop, but it occasioned no serious 
difficulty. 



Evelina and Dr. Joh^ison. 239 

The creature — for I am very angry with him — made a low 
bow, and with a grin the most malicious I ever saw, "My 
lord," said he, "far be it from me to accuse the lady for having 
the discernment to distinguish and prefer the superior attrac- 
tions of your lordship." 

Again he bowed and walked off. 

Was ever anything so provoking ? I was ready to die with 
shame. "What a coxcomb ! " exclaimed Lord Orville ; while 
I, without knowing what I did, rose hastily, and moving off, " I 
can't imagine," cried I, "where Mrs. Mirvan has hid herself!" 

"Give me leave to see," he answered. He returned in a 
moment, and told me that Mrs. Mirvan was at cards but would 
be glad to see me, and I went immediately. There was but 
one chair vacant ; so, to my great relief. Lord Orville presently 
left us. In a short time, however, he returned. I consented 
with the best grace I could to go down another dance, for Another dance. 
I had had time to recollect myself ; for it occurred to me that, 
insignificant as I was, compared to a man of his rank and 
figure, still as he had chosen me for a partner, why, I should 
endeavor to make the best of it. 

After the dance, tired, ashamed, and mortified, I begged to 
sit down, and soon after we returned home. Lord Orville did 
me the honor to hand me to the coach. Oh, these fashionable 
people 1 



CHAPTER XXV. 



Vulgar con- 
nections. 



Invitation to 
the opera. 



Although Evelina was thus introduced into very 
good society in London she had to associate with some 
dreadfully vulgar relations, or at least connections, her 
second cousins, the Branghtons ; she was obliged to be 
civil to them on account of their aunt, who was her 
grandmother, an underbred little old French woman, 
Madame Duval. Evelina was portionless, and it was 
hoped that Madame Duval might make her heiress of 
her considerable fortune. 

One evening, while Miss Mirvan and Evelina were 
dressing for the opera in high spirits, a carriage was 
heard to stop at the door, and in a few moments their 
chamber door was flung open, and they saw the two 
Miss Branghtons enter the room. 

" We're come to take you to the opera, Miss ; papa and my 
brother are below, and we are to call for your grandmama as 
we go along. ' ' 

" I am very sorry," answered I, " that you should have taken 
so much trouble, as I am engaged already." 

" Engaged ! Lord, Miss, never mind that," cried the young- 
est ; "this young lady will make your excuses I dare say ; it's 
only doing as one would be done by, you know." 

" Indeed, ma'am," said Miss Mirvan, " I shall myself be very 
sorry to be deprived of Miss Anville's company this evening." 

"Well, Miss, that is not so very good-natured in you," said 
Miss Branghton, "considering we only come to give our cousin 
pleasure ; it's no good to us ; it's all upon her account ; for we 
came, I don't know how much round about to take her up." 

"I am extremely obliged to you," said I, "and very sorry 
you have lost so much time ; but I cannot possibly help it, for 
I engaged myself without knowing you would call." 

240 



Evelina and Dr. Johnson. 241 

" Lord, what signifies that? " said Miss Polly, " you're no old 
maid, and so you needn't be so very formal ; besides, I dare 
say those you are engaged to a'n't half so near related to you 
as we are." 

' * I must beg you not to press me any further, for I assure you 
it is not in my power to attend you." 

"Why, we came all out of the city on purpose ; besides, your 
grandmama expects you ; — and, pray, what are we to say to 
her?" 

"Tell her, if you please, that I am much concerned — but that 
I am pre-engaged." 

" And who to ? " demanded the abrupt Miss Branghton. 

"To Mrs. Mirvan — and a large party." 

" And, pray, what are you all going to do, that it would be 
such a mighty matter for you to come along with us ? " 

"We are all going to — to the opera." 

" O dear, if that be all, why can't we go altogether?" 

I was extremely disconcerted at this forward and ignorant 
behavior, and yet their rudeness very much lessened my con- behavior, 
cern at refusing them. Indeed, their dress was such as would 
have rendered their scheme of accompanying our party imprac- 
ticable, even if I had desired it ; and this, as they did not them- 
selves find it out, I was obliged, in terms the least mortifying I 
could think of, to tell them. 

They were very much chagrined, and asked where I should 
sit. 

" In the pit," answered I. 

"In the pit!" repeated Miss Branghton; "well, really, I 
must own, I should never have supposed that my gown was not 
good enough for the pit ; but come, Polly, let's go ; if Miss 
does not think us fine enough for her, why to be sure she may 
choose." 

Surprised at this ignorance, I would have explained to them 
that the pit at the opera required the same dress as the boxes ; 
but they were so much affronted they would not hear me ; and, 
in great displeasure, left the room, saying they would not have 
troubled me, only they thought I should not be so proud with 
my own relations, and that they had at least as good a right 
to my company as strangers. 

I endeavored to apologize, and would have sent a long mes- 
sage to Madame Duval ; but they hastened away without 



242 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 

listening to me ; and I could not follow them down stairs, 
because I was not dressed. The last words I heard them say 

Madame Duval were, "Well, her grandmama will be in a fine passion, that's 

in a passion. j ^i. • > > 

^ one good thmg. 

And sure enough, while they were sitting at tea the 
old lady burst in furious, and insisted on carrying 
Evelina off with her. 

When we came to her lodgings, we found all the Branghtons 
in the passage, impatiently waiting for us with the door open. 

" Only see, here's Miss ! " cried the brother. 

"Well, I declare, I thought as much!" said the younger 
sister. 

" Why, Miss ! " said Mr. Branghton, " I think you might as 
well have come with your cousins at once ; it's throwing 
money in the dirt to pay two coaches for one fare." 

" Lud, father," cried the son, "make no words about that 
for I'll pay for the coach that Miss had." 

While this passed the Miss Branghtons were examining my 
dress, which, indeed, was very improper for my company, and 
as I was extremely unwilling to be so conspicuous amongst 
them, I requested Madame Duval to borrow a hat or bonnet for 
me of the people of the house. But she never wears either 
herself, and thinks both very English and barbarous, therefore 
she insisted that I should go full dressed, as I had prepared 
myself for the pit, though I made many objections. 

If I had not been too much chagrined to laugh, I should have 
been diverted at their ignorance of whatever belongs to an 
opera. They could not tell at what door we ought to enter 
and wandered about for some time without knowing which 
way to turn. 

Mr. Branghton refused to pay half a guinea a piece 

for tickets to the pit, so they finally found themselves in 

the gallery, where their amazement and disappointment 

became general. For a few instants they looked at one 

another without speaking, and then they all broke 

silence at once. 

One-shilling "Lord, papa," exclaimed Miss Polly, "why, you have 

gallery, brought US to the one-shilling gallery!" :; 



Evelina and Dr. Johnson. 243 

They continued to express their dissatisfaction till the cur- 
tain drew up, after which their observations were very curious. 
They made no allowance for the customs, or even for the lan- 
guage, of another country ; but formed all their remarks upon 
comparisons with the English theater. 

Notwithstanding my vexation at having been forced into 
a party so very disagreeable, and that, too, from one so much 
— so very much — the contrary, yet, would they have suffered 
me to listen, I should have forgotten everything unpleasant, 
and felt nothing but delight in hearing the sweet voice of voice of 
Signor Millico, the first singer ; but they tormented me with Signor Millico,^ 
continual talking. 

"What a jabbering they make!" cried Mr. Branghton, 
"there's no knowing a word they say. Pray, what's the 
reason they can't as well sing in English ? — but I suppose the 
fine folks would not like it, if they could understand it." 

" How unnatural their action is ! " said the son ; "why, now, 
who ever saw an Englishman put himself in such out-of-the- 
way postures ? ' ' 

"For my part," said Miss Polly, "I think it's very pretty, 
only I don't know what it means." 

"Lord, what does that signify?" cried her sister; "mayn't 
one like a thing without being so very particular ? You may Comments of 
see that Miss likes it, and I don't suppose she knows more 
of the matter than we do," 

A gentleman, soon after, was so obliging as to make room in 
the front row for Miss Branghton and me. We had no sooner 
seated ourselves than Miss Branghton exclaimed, "Good 
gracious ! only see ! — why, Polly, all the people in the pit are 
without hats, dressed like anything ! " 

"Lord, so they are," cried Miss Polly; "well, I never saw 
the like ! — it's worth coming to the opera, if one saw nothing 
else." 

When the curtain dropped they all rejoiced. Miss Branghton 
looking at me declared that she was not genteel enough to ad- 
mire it. Miss Polly confessed that if they would but sing English 
she would like it very well. The brother wished he could raise 
a riot in the house, because then he might get his money again. 
And finally they all agreed it was monstrous dear. 

: This seems to us poor fun, but it was the delight o\ 



244 -^'^ ^^^^ Mariners of the Eighteenth Century. 



Marylebone 
Garden. 



Fireworks. 



all London. Dr. Johnson loved his Branghtons, and 
considered them a wonderful piece of work. 

Another time Evelina went with these same cousins to 
Marylebone Garden. Pepys had walked in it, and John 
Sheffield, Duke of Buckingham ; and here it was also 
that Mrs. Fountain, the famous beauty of her day, was 
once saluted by Dick Turpin, who said, " Be not 
alarmed, madam, you may now boast that you have 
been kissed by Turpin." 

This garden, as it is called, is neither striking for magnifi- 
cence nor for beauty ; and we were all so dull and languid, 
that I was extremely glad when we were summoned to the 
orchestra, upon the opening of a concert ; in the course of 
which I had the pleasure of hearing a concerto on the violin by 
Mr. Barthelemon, who to me seems a player of exquisite fancy, 
feeling, and variety. 

When notice was given us that the fireworks were preparing, 
we hurried along to secure good places for the sight ; but very 
soon we were so encircled and incommoded by the crowd that 
Mr. Smith proposed the ladies should make interest for a form 
to stand upon : this was soon effected : and the men then left 
us to accommodate themselves better ; saying they would re- 
turn the moment the exhibition was over. 

The firework was really beautiful ; and told, with wonderful 
ingenuity, the story of Orpheus and Eurydice : but at the 
moment of the fatal look which separated them forever there 
was such an explosion of fire, and so horrible a noise, that we 
all, as of one accord, jumpt hastily from the form, and ran 
away some paces, fearing that we were in danger of mischief, 
from the innumerable sparks of fire which glittered in the air. 

Mr. Smith was lodger on the first floor in the house 
^inhabited by the Branghtons. They thought him very 
fine ; he soon fell a victim to Evelina's charms. 

Another day they went in a hackney coach to Picca- 
dilly, 

and then had a walk through Hyde Park ; which in any other 
company would have been delightful. I was much pleased 



Evelina and Dr. Johnson. 245 

with Kensington Gardens, and think them infinitely preferable 
to those of Vauxhall. 

Young Branghton was extremely troublesome ; he insisted 
upon walking by my side, and talked with me almost by 
compulsion. Once, indeed, when I was accidentally a few 
yards before the rest, he said, "I suppose. Miss, aunt has told 
you about — you know what? — ha'n't she, Miss ? " 

Madame Duval planned a match between Evelina and 
young Branghton, and as she had money to leave, the 
plan was encouraged by all her cousins. 

While we were strolling round the garden, I perceived, walk- 
ing with a party of ladies at some distance, Lord Orville ! I the^distance. '"^ 
instantly retreated behind Miss Branghton, and kept out of 
sight till we had passed him ; for I dreaded being seen by him 
again in a public walk with a party of which I was ashamed. 

Happily I succeeded in my design, and saw no more of him ; 
for a sudden and violent shower of rain made us all hasten out 
of the gardens. We ran till we came to a small green-shop, 
where we begged shelter. Here we found ourselves in com- 
pany with two footmen, whom the rain had driven into the 
shop. Their livery I thought I had before seen ; and, upon 
looking from the window, I perceived the same upon a coach- 
man belonging to a carriage which I immediately recollected 
to be Lord Orville's. 

Fearing to be known, I whispered Miss Branghton not to 

speak my name. Had I considered but a moment, I should Unwise 
1 „ . . caution, 

have been sensible of the inutility 01 such a caution, smce not 

one of the party call me by any other appellation than that of 
Cousin or of Miss ; but I am perpetually involved in some dis- 
tress or dilemma from my own heedlessness. 

This request excited very strongly her curiosity : and she 
attacked me with such eagerness and bluntness of inquiry that 
I could not avoid telling her the reason of my making it, and, 
consequently, that I was known to Lord Orville : an acknowl- 
edgment which proved the most unfortunate in the world ; for 
she would not rest till she had drawn from me the circum- 
stances attending my first making the acquaintance. Then, 

calHng to her sister, she said, "Lord, Polly, only think ! Miss "Miss has 

=" ' ' T J 1 J danced with a 

has danced with a lord ! " lord ! " 



246 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 



A coronet- 
coach. 



Evelina almost 
in tears. 



"Well," cried Polly, "that's a thing I should never have 
thought of! And pray, Miss, what did he say to you ? " 

This question was much sooner asked than answered ; and 
they both became so very inquisitive and earnest that they 
soon drew the attention of Madame Duval and the rest of the 
party ; to whom, in a very short time, they repeated all they 
had gathered from me. 

"Goodness, then," cried young Branghton, "if I was Miss, 
if I would not make free with his lordship's coach, to take me 
to town." 

"Why, ay," said the father, "there would be some sense in 
that ; that would be making some use of a lord's acquaintance, 
for it would save us coach-hire." 

" Lord, Miss," cried Polly, " I wish you would ; for I should 
like of all things to ride in a coronet-coach." 

"I promise you," said Madame Duval, "Pm glad you've 
thought of it, for I don't see no objection ; — so let's have the 
coachman called." 

"Not for the world," cried I, very much alarmed ; "indeed, 
it is utterly impossible." 

"Why so ? " demanded Mr. Branghton ; " pray, where's the 
good of your knowing a lord if you're never the better for 
him?" 

" Ma foi, child," said Madame Duval, "you don't know no 
more of the world than if you was a baby. Pray, sir (to one of 
the footmen), tell that coachman to draw up, for I wants to 
speak to him." 

To the despair of Evelina a footman ran to ask the 
permission of his lordship. 

He returned in a few minutes ; and, bowing to me with the 
greatest respect, said, " My lord desires his compliments, and 
his carriage will be always at Miss Anville's service." 

I was so much affected by this politeness, and chagrined at 
the whole affair, that I could scarce refrain from tears. Madame 
Duval and the Miss Branghtons eagerly jumped into the coach, 
and desired me to follow. I would rather have submitted to 
the severest punishment ; but all resistance was vain. 

During the whole ride I said not a word ; however, the rest 
of the party were so talkative that my silence was very imma- 
terial. We stopped at our lodgings ; but when Madame Duval 



Evelina and Dr. Johnson. 247 

and I alighted, the Branghtons asked if they could not be car- 
ried on to Snow Hill ? The servants, now all civility, made no 
objection. Remonstrances from me would, I too well knew, be 
fruitless ; and therefore, with a heavy heart, retired to my own 
room and left them to their own direction. 

There was further trouble, for going up Snow Hill the 
coach came up against a cart with a jog that almost 
pulled the wheel ofi, and young Branghton, inobservant 
of the glass being up, poked his head through the 
vi^indow. Probably Lord Orville' s coach had never be- Broken glass, 
fore been seen in so vulgar a part of London as ' ' the 
city." 

The viaduct from Holborn has made people forget the 
steepness of Snow Hill, down which Mohocks in Queen 
Anne's time used to amuse themselves by rolling de- 
fenseless women in barrels. Gay, in ' ' Trivia, ' ' writes : 

Who has not heard the scorner's midnight fame ? 
Who has not trembled at the Mohock's name ? 
I pass their desperate deeds, and mischief done. 
Where from Snow Hill black steepy torrents run. 
How matrons, hooped within the hogshead's womb. 
Were tumbled furious thence. 

This is the last we shall see of the Branghtons, for 
Madame Duval, upon discovering an old beau she con- Branghtons!''^ 
sidered her own at the feet of Evelina, fell into a rage, 
and swore to take no further interest in her affairs unless 
she would instantly agree to marry young Branghton. 

This of course was out of the question, and what- 
ever expectations of advantage from Madame Duval 
had been entertained by Evelina's well-wishers being 
now at an end, Evelina returned to her guardian, 
the Reverend Mr. Villars, an excellent clergyman, 
who had been the tutor of Evelina's grandfather, Mr. 
Evelyn (hence her name). Mr. Evelyn, after the death 
of his first (and lovely) wife, foolishly married Madame 



248 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 

Duval, who was then a waiting girl at a tavern. He 

survived this second marriage only two years, a period 

quite long enough to reveal to him that this second wife 

Evelina's ^y^s no Suitable guardian for the daughter left him by 

antecedents. . 

the first. He bequeathed his daughter, therefore, to the 
care of Villars, who brought her up tenderly, strangely 
enough to be later called upon to perform the same 
offices for her daughter, Evelina, the granddaugh- 
ter of his pupil and friend. As Evelina was an orphan, 
poor and nameless, it was thought advisable if possible 
to make up the long quarrel with Madame Duval, her 
grandmother, and this was one reason why she was 
allowed to go to London. 



Rev. Mr. 



CHAPTER XXVI. 

It was rather hard on old Mr. Villars, after having 
the charge of Evelyn's daughter during her youth, 
again to find himself, through circumstances which hap- Viiiars. 
pened before the beginning of the book, burdened with 
the responsibility of another girl to be educated, but he 
did not shirk the obligation. 

Mr. Villars writes to Evelina : 

Berry Hill, July yth. 

Welcome, thrice welcome, my darling Evelina, to the arms 
of the truest, the fondest of your friends ! Mrs. Clinton [a 
trusty old housekeeper], who shall hasten to you with these 
lines, will conduct you directly hither ; for I can consent no 
longer to be parted from the child of my bosom ! — the comfort 
of my age ! — the sweet solace of all my infirmities ! 

I have much to say to you, many comments to make upon 
your late letters, some parts of which give me no little uneasi- 
ness ; but I will reserve my remarks for our future conver- 
sations. Hasten, then, to the spot of thy nativity, the abode of 
thy youth, where never yet care or sorrow had power to annoy His tenderness 
thee. O that they might ever be banished this peaceful dwell- f'°'' Evelina. 
ing. 

Adieu, my dearest Evelina ! I pray but that thy satisfaction 

at our approaching meeting may bear any comparison with 

mine ! 

Arthur Villars. 

Evelina was now at home, but her correspondent, 
Miss Mirvan (the book is all in letters), chides her with 
a lack of her usual liveliness. In time the cause of her 
evident depression comes to light. 

I know not how to come to the point ; twenty times have I 
attempted it in vain ; — but I vj\!Ci force myself to proceed. 

249 



250 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 

Oh, Miss Mirvan, could you ever have believed that one who 

Depression of seemed formed as a pattern for his fellow-creatures, as a model 

Evelina. ^j- perfection — one whose elegance surpassed all description — 

whose sweetness of manners disgraced all comparison ; — oh, 

Miss Mirvan, could you ever have believed that Lord Orville 

would have treated me with indignity ? 

Never, never again will I trust to appearances ; — never con- 
fide in my own weak judgment ; — never believe that person to 
be good who seems to be amiable ! What cruel maxims are we 
taught by a knowledge of the world ! — I>ut while my own re- 
flecUons absorb me, I forget you are still in suspense. 

I had just finished the last letter wliich I wrote to you from 
London when the maid of the house brought me a note. It 
was given to her, she said, by a footman, who told her he 
would call the next day for an answer. 

This note — but let it speak for itself. 

" To Miss Anville : With transport, most charming of thy 
Its cause. sex, did I read the letter with which you yesterday morning 

favored me. I am sorry the affair of the carriage should have 
given you any concern, but I am highly flattered by the anxiety 
you express so kindly. Believe me, my lovely girl, I am truly 
sensible of the honor of your good opinion, and feel myself 
deeply penetrated with love and gratitude. The correspon- 
dence you have so sweetly commenced I shall be proud of con- 
tinuing ; and I hope the strong sense I have of the favor you do 
me will prevent your withdrawing it. Assure yourself that I 
desire nothing more ardently than to pour forth my thanks at 
your feet, and to offer those vows wliich are so justly the 
tribute of your charms and accomplishments. In your next I 
intreat you to acejuaint me how long you shall remain in town. 
The servant, whom I shall commission to call for an answer, 
has orders to ride post with it to me. My impatience for liis 
arrival will be very great, though inferior to that with which I 
burn to tell you, in person, how much I am, my sweet girl, your 
, grateful admirer, "Orville." 

Evelina's letter was a note hastily written to Lord 
Orville in her anguish on hearing the injury caused to 
his coach, by the carelessness of her cousins. She had 
given it to the maid to post. 



Evelina and Dr. Johnson. 251 

Her first impression on reading his note was one of 
delight. 

Unsuspicious of any impropriety from Lord Orville, I per- 
ceived not immediately the impertinence it implied — I only First 
marked the expressions of his own regard ; and I was so much 
surprised that I was unable for some time to compose myself, 
or read it again : — I could only walk up and down the room, , 
repeating to myself, "Good God, is it possible? — am I then 
loved by Lord Orville ? " 

But this dream was soon over, and I awoke to far different 
feelings. Upon a second reading I thought every word changed 
— it did not seem the same letter — I could not find one sentence 
that I could look at without blushing : my astonishment was 
extreme, and it was succeeded by the utmost indignation. 

If, as I am very ready to acknowledge, I erred in writing to 
Lord Orville, was it for him to punish the error? If he was of- 
fended," could he not have been silent? If he thought my letter 
ill-judged, should he not have pitied my ignorance? have con- 
sidered my youth, and allowed for my inexperience ? 

Evelina's depression of spirits could not fail to attract 
the anxious attention of her kind guardian. She writes : 

Mr. Villars himself was grave, and I had not sufficient spirits . • . -• 
^ ' ' Anxiety of 

to support a conversation merely by my own efforts. As soon Mr. Villars. 

as dinner was over, he took a book, and I walked to the win- 
dow. I believe I remained near an hour in this situation. All 
my thoughts were directed to considering how I might dispel 
the doubts which I apprehended Mr. Villars had formed, with- 
out acknowledging a circumstance which I had suffered so 
much pain merely to conceal. But while I was thus planning 
for the future, I forgot the present ; and so intent was I upon 
the subject which occupied me that the strange appearance of 
my unusual inactivity and extreme thoughtfulness never oc- 
curred to me. But when, at last, I recollected myself and 
turned round, I saw that Mr. Villars, who had parted with his 
book, was wholly engrossed in attending to me. I started from 
my reverie, and, hardly knowing what I said, asked if he had 
been reading ? 

He paused a moment, and then replied, "Yes, my child — a 
book that both afflicts and perplexes me." 



252 Men and Manner's of the Eighteenth Century. 



Evelina's 
confession. 



The letter 
shown in 
explanation. 



He means me, thought I ; and therefore I made no answer. 

"What if we read it together?" continued he, "will you 
assist me to clear its obscurity ? " 

"If — if you please ; — I believe — " said I, stammering. 

"Well, then, my love, I was thinking of the regret it was 
natural you should feel upon quitting those from whom you had 
received civility and kindness, with so little certainty of ever 
seeing them again, or being able to return their good offices. 
These are circumstances that afford but melancholy reflections 
to young minds ; and the affectionate disposition of my Evelina, 
open to all social feelings, must be hurt more than usual by 
such considerations. — You are silent, my dear. Shall I name 
those whom I think most worthy the regret I speak of? We 
shall then see if our opinions coincide." 

Still I said nothing, and he continued. 

" In your London journal, nobody appears in a more amiable, 
a more respectable light than Lord Orville ; and perhaps " 

" I knew what you would say," cried I hastily, " and I have 
long feared where your suspicions would fall ; but indeed, sir, 
you are mistaken ; I hate Lord Orville — he is the last man in 
the world in whose favor I should be prejudiced." 

I stopped ; for Mr. Villars looked at me with such infinite 
surprise that my own warmth made me blush. 

" You hate Lord Orville ! " repeated he. 

I could make no answer ; but took from my pocket-book the 
letter, and giving it to him, " See, sir," said I, "how differently 
the same man can talk and write .' " 

He read it three times before he spoke; and then said, "I 
am so much astonished that I know not what I read. When 
had you this letter ? " 

I told him. Again he read it, and, after considering its con- 
tents some time, said, " I can form but one conjecture concern- 
ing this most extraordinary performance ; he must certainly 
have been intoxicated when he wrote it." 

"Lord Orville intoxicated!" repeated I; "once I thought 
him a stranger to all intemperance ; — but it is very possible, for 
I can believe anything now." 

"That a man who had behaved with so strict a regard to 
delicacy," continued Mr. Villars, " and who, as far as occasion 
had allowed, manifested sentiments the most honorable, should 
thus insolently, thus wantonly, insult a modest young woman. 



Evelina and Dr. Johnson. 253 

in his perfect senses, I cannot think possible. But, my dear, 
you should have enclosed this letter in an empty cover, and 
have returned it to him again ; such a resentment would at once 
have become your character, and have given him an opportu- 
nity, in some measure, of clearing his own. He could not well 
have read this letter the next morning without being sensible 
of the impropriety of having written it." 

Excellent Mr. Villars ! Here shines the man of the 
world, as well as the solicitous guardian. But what a 
world, when such an explanation of an ungentlemanly 
action should be possible but satisfactory ! Of course 
Evelina had not thought of returning the letter. The 
good old gentleman further provided for the well-being 
of his Evelina by sending her to Bristol Hot-wells, with 
his friend, Mrs. Selwyn, by her cordial invitation. 

The Hot-wells of Bristol, which have been known for 
four hundred years, enjoyed a great reputation in the Bristol, 
days of Evelina, now completely out-lived. The situa- 
tion of "Clifton Downs" is mentioned in Miss Edge- 
worth's "Waste Not, Want Not," as well as in the 
books of our period. It is extremely picturesque ; the 
Avon here flows through a deep gorge now crossed by 
a suspension bridge. "St. Vincent's Rocks" and 
"The Giant's Cave" and "Nightingale Valley" are 
names remaining from the fashionable era of the locality. 
There is, and doubtless was in Evelina's time, a plateau 
dotted with fine trees and the villas of well-to-do citi- 
zens of Bristol. 

Evelina writes : 

Bristol Hot-wells, August 28th. 

You will be again surprised, my dear Maria, at seeing whence 
I date my letter : but I have been very ill, and Mr. Villars was 
so much alarmed that he not only insisted upon my accom- 
panying Mrs. Selwyn hither, but earnestly desired she would 
hasten her intended journey. 



254 Me7i and Manners of the Eighteerith Centuty. 



A delightful 
spot. 



Lord Orville 
himself again. 



Mrs. Beau- 
mont's garden. 



We traveled very slowly, and I did not find myself so much 
fatigued as I expected. We are situated upon a most delightful 
spot ; the prospect is beautiful, the air pure, and the weather 
very favorable to invalids. I am already better, and I doubt 
not but I shall soon be well ; as well, in regard to mere health, 
as I wish to be. 

' Here she passed a fortnight so quiet, so serene, that 
it gave her reason to expect a settled calm, but lo ! who 
should arrive upon the scene but Lord Orville, to wait 
upon his very pretty sister, Lady - Louisa Larpent. 
Whereon her next letter to Mr. Villars begins : 

Oh, sir, Lord Orville is still himself ! still what, from the mo- 
ment I beheld, I believed him to be — all that is amiable in 
man ! and your happy Evelina, restored at once to spirits and 
tranquillity, is no longer sunk in her own opinion, nor discon- 
tented with the world ; — no longer, with dejected eyes, sees the 
prospect of passing her future days in sadness, doubt, and sus- 
picion ! — with revived courage she now looks forward, and ex- 
pects to meet with goodness, even among mankind : — though 
still she feels, as strongly as ever, the folly of hoping, in any 
second instance, to meet with perfection. 

Your conjecture was certainly right ; Lord Orville, when he 
wrote that letter, could not be in his senses. Oh, that intem- 
perance should have power to degrade so low a man so noble ! 

This brother and sister. Lord Orville and Lady 
Louisa, were staying with Mrs. Beaumont, at her beau- 
tiful home upon Clifton Hill ; fortunately Mrs. Selwyn 
knew Mrs. Beaumont, and so, with Evelina, she waited 
upon her at once. They were invited into the garden. 

We had not walked long ere, at a distance, I perceived Lord 
Orville, who seemed just dismounted from his horse, enter the 
garden. All my perturbation returned at the sight of him ! — 
yet I endeavored to repress every feeling but resentment. As 
he approached us, he bowed to the whole party ; but I turned 
away my head to avoid taking any share in his civility. Ad- 
dressing himself immediately to Mrs. Beaumont, he was begin- 
ning to inquire after his sister : but, upon seeing my face, he 



Evelina and Dr. Johnson. 



255 



charm. 



suddenly exclaimed, "Miss Anville !" and then he advanced 
and made his com.pliments to me — not with an air of vanity or 
impertinence, nor yet with a look of consciousness or shame ; 
— but with a countenance open, manly, and charming ! — with a 
smile that indicated pleasure, and eyes that sparkled with 
delight ! — on Diy side was all that consciousness ; for by him, I 
really believe, the letter was, at that moment, entirely forgotten. 

With what politeness did he address me ! with what sweet- 
ness did he look at me ! the very tone of his voice seemed flat- The same old 
tering ! he congratulated himself upon his good fortune in 
meeting with me ; — hoped I should spend some time in Bristol, 
and inquired, even with anxiety inquired, if my health was the 
cause of my journey ; in which case his satisfaction would be 
converted into apprehension. 

Yet, struck as I was with his manner, and charmed to find 
him such as he was wont to be, imagine not, my dear sir, that 
I forgot the resentment I owe him, or the cause he has given 
me of displeasure ; no, my behavior was such as I hope, had 
you seen, you would not have disapproved : I was grave and 
distant ; I scarce looked at him when he spoke, or answered 
him when he was silent. 

As he must certainly observe this alteration in my conduct, 
I think it could not fail making him both recollect and repent 
the provocation he had so causelessly given me ; for surely he 
was not so wholly lost to reason as to be now ignorant he had 
ever offended me. 

I may as well here explain that Lord Orville never 
wrote the offending letter at all. It was a piece of 
malice on the part of Sir Clement Willoughby, another 
admirer, who was in fact the villain no self-respecting 
novel in those days could be without. Sir Clement had 
intercepted Evelina's note on its way to the post, 
opened it, and answered it in the manner we have seen. 
This all came out later. 

Lord Orville was beloved not only by Evelina but by 

11- ^ pattern 

all Miss Burney s readers ; the world accepted him more lover, 
readily even than it did Sir Charles. He was the pattern- 
lover of all the young ladies of that generation. I am fond 



A piece of 
malice. 



256 Me7i and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 



Complications 
cleared up. 



Evelina 
recognized. 



of him myself. He was evidently a gentleman, for even 
the reproach of over-drinking is removed from him. No 
doubt Evelina's conduct at their first ball amused him, 
and he may have begun the acquaintance with a certain 
condescending pity for the country girl, but instead of 
being disgusted by the vulgarity of her companions, his 
real kindness of heart seems to have led him to protect 
her, at first with no other motive than that of good- 
breeding ; but her simplicity and vivacity and especially 
her sincerity created a warmer feeling, which perhaps 
was increased by her coldness of manner, for which 
there appeared to him to be no reasonable ground. 

But these little matters were easily straightened out, 
and here the book might end, but for the mystery of 
Evelina's birth, and a quantity of complications on side 
issues I have not thought worth while to mention, which 
have to be cleared up. Mrs. Beaumont invited them to 
Clifton. "Here I am, my dear sir," writes Evelina, 
' ' under the same roof, an inmate of the same house as 
LordOrville." 

Sir John Belmont, who appears on the scene at Clifton, 
was the father of Evelina. Having abandoned his wife 
not long after the birth of a daughter, he had always 
refused to believe that Evelina was his child, having 
been convinced by the wicked Dame Green, Evelina's 
first nurse, that another young lady bore that title. All 
these difficulties are now overcome, the father's heart 
softened, Evelina recognized. Lord Orville's time was 
come. Before leaving Mrs. Beaumont's, on the last 
day of Evelina's visit, they all went after dinner to the 
drawing-room. 

Mrs. Selwyn said she must prepare for her journey, and 
begged me to see for some books she had left in the parlor. 
And here while I was looking for them, I was followed by 



The offer. 



Evelina and Dr. Johnson. 257 

Lord Orville. He shut the door after he came in, and said, " Is 
this true, Miss Anville, are you going? " 

Miss Anville was the name borne by Evelina during 
her life while her father refused to recognize her. 

" I believe so, my lord," said I, still looking for the books. 

" So suddenly, so unexpectedly must I lose you ? " 

"No great loss, my lord," cried I, endeavoring to speak 
cheerfully. 

"Is it possible," said he gravely, "Miss Anville can doubt 
my sincerity? " 

"I can't imagine," cried I, "what Mrs. Selwyn has done 
with these books." 

"Would to heaven," continued he, "I might flatter myself 
you would allow me to prove it ! " 

" I must run up stairs," cried I, greatly confused, " and ask 
what she has done with them." 

" You are going, then," cried he, taking my hand, " and you 
give me not the smallest hope of your return ! — will you not, 
then, my too lovely friend ! — will you not, at least, teach me, 
with fortitude like your own, to support your absence?" 

"My lord," cried I, endeavoring to disengage my hand, 
"pray let me go ! " 

"I will," cried he, to my inexpressible confusion dropping 
on one knee, "if you wish to leave me ! " 

"Oh, my lord," exclaimed I, "rise, I beseech you, rise ! — 
such a posture to me ! — surely your lordship is not so cruel as to 
mock me ! " 

"Mock you!" repeated he earnestly, "no, I revere you! I 
esteem and I admire you above all human beings ! you are the 
friend to whom my soul is attached as to its better half ! you 
are the most amiable, the most perfect of women ! and you are 
dearer to me than language has the power of telling." 

I attempt not to describe my sensations at that moment ; I 
scarce breathed ; I doubted if I existed — the blood forsook Evelina, 
my cheeks, and my feet refused to sustain me ; Lord Orville, 
hastily rising, supported me to a chair, upon which I sunk, 
almost lifeless. 

For a few minutes we neither of us spoke ; and then seeing 
me recover, Lord Orville, though in terms hardly articulate, 
entreated my pardon for his abruptness. The moment my 



258 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 

strength returned, I attempted to rise, but he would not per- 
mit me. . . 

His protestations, his expressions, were too flattering for 
repetition ; he drew from me the most sacred secret of my 
heart. 
siiil upon his He was still upon his knees when the door opened and Mrs. 

''"'^^^- Selwyn entered. 

,1 snatched my hand from Lord Orville ; he, too, started and 
rose, and Mrs. Selwyn stood facing us in silence. 

"At last, my lord," said she sarcastically, "have you been 
so good as to help Miss Anville look for my books ? " 

"Yes, madam," answered he, attempting to rally, "and 
I hope we shall soon be able to find them." 

"Your lordship is extremely kind," said she drily, "but I 
can by no means consent to take up any more of your time." 
Then looking on the window-seat, she presently found the 
books, and added, " Come, here are just three ; this important 
affair may give employment to us all." She then presented 
one of them to Lord Orville, another to me, and taking a third 
herself, with a most provoking look she left the room. 

He detained Evelina for a few natural questions, which 
he offered with much delicacy, thus : 

"My lord, I can stay no longer — Mrs. Selwyn will lose 
all patience." 

"Deprive her not of the pleasure of her conjectures — but tell 
me, are you under Mrs. Selwyn's care ? " 
" Only for the present, my lord." 
An important "Not a few are the questions I have to ask Miss Anville: 

question. among them, the most important is, whether she depends 

wholly on herself, or whether there is any other person for 
whose interest I must solicit ? " 

This was surely a mild manner of finding out whether 
she had any father, or even any name to speak of. She 
replied : 

" I hardly know, my lord; I hardly know myself to whom I 
most belong." 

"Suffer, suffer me then, " cried he with warmth, "to hasten 
the time when your grateful Orville may call you all his own ! " 



Evelina and Dr. Johnson. . 259 

The subject of the improper letter was cleared up 
before they parted. Her note he had never received, 
never answered, as he assured her in the most solemn 
manner. 

It was now settled by all the advisers and guardians Marriage to 

° take place at 

that the marriage should take place at once. o"ce. 

Lord Orville executed his utmost eloquence to reconcile me 
to this hasty plan ; but how was I startled when he told 
me that next Tuesday was the day appointed by my father to 
be the most important of my life ! 

But she consented, with great sweetness, although she 
must have had in mind the long delays imposed by 
Harriet Byron upon her suitor under similar circum- 
stances. 

The next morning, as soon as breakfast was over, 
Lord Orville went to wait upon her father, while she 
went to walk with Mrs. Beaumont and the rest. 



Meeting with 
her father. 



Lord Orville was not long absent : he joined us in the garden 
with a look of gaiety and good humor that revived us all. 
" You are just the party," said he, " I wished to see together. 
Will you, madam (taking my hand), allow me the honor of 
introducing you, by your real name, to two of my nearest 
relations ? Mrs. Beaumont, give me leave to present to you 
the daughter of Sir John Belmont, a young lady who, I am 
sure, must long since have engaged your esteem and admira- 
tion, though you were a stranger to her birth." 

Sir John's settlements were perfectly satisfactory ; in 
fact, he was so delighted with his real daughter, now he 
had found her, that he was most amiable. And now it 
ends. There is no thought of going to Berry Hill to be 
married, and no account whatever of the wedding, but 
the good Villars is asked for his consent. He replies : vii?afs°again. 

Every wish of my soul is now fulfilled — for the felicity of my 
Evehna is equal to her worthiness ! 

Yes, my child, thy happiness is engraved in golden charac- 



26o Men and Manners of the Eightee7ith Century. 

ters upon the tablets of my heart ; and their impression is 
indelible : for, should the rude and deep-searching hand of 
misfortune attempt to pluck them from their repository, the 
fleeting fabric of life would give way ; and in tearing from my 
vitals the nourishment by which they are supported, she would 
but grasp at a shadow insensible to her touch. 

Give thee my consent? — Oh, thou joy, comfort, and pride 
of my life, how cold is that word to express the fervency of my 
approbation ! Yes, I do indeed give thee my consent ; and so 
thankfully, that, with the humblest gratitude to providence, I 
would seal it with the remnant of my days. 

Hasten then, my love, to bless me with thy presence, and to 
receive the blessings with which my fond heart overflows ! 

The story ends thus : 

LETTER LXXXIV. 

Evelina to the Rev. Mr. Villars. 

All is over, my dearest sir ; and the fate of your Evelina is 
Close of the decided! This morning, with fearful joy and trembling grati- 
^'oo^- tude, she united herself forever with the object of her dearest, 

her eternal affection, 

I have time for no more ; the chaise now waits which is to 
conduct me to dear Berry Hill, and to the arms of the best 
of men. 

Evelina. 

Throughout the book there is a good deal of horse- 
play, which I have here left out entirely, between Ma- 
dame Duval and Captain Mirvan, and between Captain 
Mirvan and the fop named Lovel, whose conduct was 
shown in the first chapter. I dislike this feature in the 
book, and it is altogether unsuited to the modern taste ; 
but it was to such scenes that ' ' Evelina ' ' owed its first 
popularity. 



Fanny Burney. 



CHAPTER XXVII. 

This was the novel which created such a sensation 
when it first appeared anonymously in London in 1778. 
In her diary, which Fanny Burney began at the age of 
fifteen, she thus records the event : 

This year was ushered in by a grand and most important 
event ! At the latter end of January the literary world was 
favored with the first publication of the ingenious, learned, and 
most profound Fanny Burney ! I doubt not but this memorable 
affair will, in future times, mark the period whence chronolo- 
gers will date the zenith of the polite arts in this island ! 

This admirable authoress has named her most elaborate per- 
formance, "Evelina; or, A Young Lady's Entrance into the 
World." 

The manuscript was secretly sent to a publisher, by 
the way of a frolic of the young people, and rather to 
the surprise of the young author accepted. 

Frances Burney, who was born in June, 1752, had a 
happy childhood and youth in her London home, in chtidhood.^" 
Poland Street, where Dr. Burney lived with his several 
children, in an atmosphere of reading, music, and intel- 
ligent occupation. The house was full of books ; and 
people who talked about them easily came and went, 
for Dr. Burney' s miscellaneous society included eminent 
men in literature not only English, but many accom- 
plished foreigners, and the house was a place where such 
people liked to come and were welcome. By the time 
Fanny was fourteen she had, it is said, studied many of 
the best authors of her father's library, of which she had 
the uncontrolled range. Whether she had or not, she library. 

261 



Her father's 



262 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Cejitury. 



Society at 
home. 



Buining her 
manuscripts. 



was familiar with the backs of these books, which is 
something in itself, implying a sense of acquaintance and 
familiarity with great authors, just as a child feels at 
home with the grown people about him, without having 
very ■ much conversation with them. Dr. Burney's 
second wife, Fanny's step-mother, brought into the 
family several children by her former marriage who had 
been always friends and playmates of the young Bur- 
neys. These all went to live with them in St. Martin's 
Street, making a large and congenial circle. Among 
the names of the friends who used to assemble round 
their tea-table and join their simple early suppers could 
be found all the interesting literary, musical, and artistic 
people of their time. London was smaller than it is now, 
and the literary and intelligent people found each other 
readily. 

Fanny, one of the younger ones, used to sit and 
listen or watch, then slip away and write for her own 
amusement in a little play-room there was up two pairs 
of stairs, where the toys of the little children were lying 
round. This pursuit was a secret ; only her sister Susan 
was in it, until the new mother, discovering the prac- 
tice, was worried about it, and in a friendly manner 
advised little Fanny to give it up. The female writer of 
novels and romances was at that time in but poor repute 
in the literary world, and Mrs. Burney was probably 
right from her point of view. 

The good little girl was so wrought upon in her sense 
of duty and obedience that she resolved to make an 
" auto de fe of all her manuscripts, and, if possible, to 
throw away her pen. Seizing, therefore, an oppor- 
tunity when Dr. and Mrs. Burney were from home, she 
made over to a bonfire in a paved play-court her whole 
stock of prose compositions, while her faithful Susanna 



Fanny's 



Evelina and Dr. Johnso7i. 263 

stood by, weeping at the conflagration. Among the 
works thus immolated was one tale of considerable 
length, the " History of Caroline Evelyn," the mother 
of Evelina. 

This sacrifice was made in the young authoress's fif- 
teenth year, and for some weeks she probably adhered 
to her resolution of composing no more works of fiction, 
and began, perhaps as a less objectionable employment, 
the journal which she continued during so many years. 
But the perennial fountain could not be restrained ; her 
imagination was haunted by the singular situations ' ' to imagination 
which Caroline Evelyn's infant daughter might be ex- 
posed, from the unequal birth by which she hung sus- 
pended between the elegant connections of her mother 
and the vulgar ones of her grandmother ' ' ; thus present- 
ing contrasts and mixtures of society so unusual, yet, 
under the supposed circumstances, so natural, that irre- 
sistibly, and almost unconsciously, the whole story of 
"Evelina; or, A Young Lady's Entrance into the 
World," was pent up in the inventor's memory ere a 
paragraph was committed to paper. 

Writing was to her always more difficult than com- 
posing, because her time and her pen found ample 
employment in transcribing for her father, who was 
occupied at every spare moment with preparations for 
his great work, " The General History of Music." 

In the summer of 1770 Fanny obtained several months 

Absence of 

of leisure for her own studies and compositions, as Dr. Dr. Bumey. 
Burney then set out on a solitary tour through France 
and Italy, for the purpose of collecting materials for his 
history ; but on his return in the spring of 177 1 she 
was employed as his principal amanuensis, in preparing 
the minutes of his tour for the press. All his daughters, 
however, shared in this service, copying his numerous 



264 Meri and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 

manuscripts, tracing over and over again the same page 
when his nicety of judgment suggested alterations ; 
while their, patient and affectionate assiduity brought its 
own reward, in the extension of knowledge and im- 
provement of taste which accrued from such labors. 

Before she consented to prepare her manuscript for 

publication, a difficulty occurred, for she felt a con- 

A conscientious scicutious scruplc whether it would be right to allow her- 

scruple. -^ 1 r 1 r-1 

self such an amusement unknown to, her father. She 
had never taken any important step without his sanction, 
and had now refrained from asking it through confusion 
at acknowledging her authorship and dread of his desir- 
ing to see her performance. However, in this, as in 
every instance during her life, she no sooner saw what 
was her duty than she honestly performed it. Seizing, 
therefore, an opportunity when her father was away 
somewhere, she avowed to him, with many blushes, 
"her secret little work, and her odd inclination to see it 
in print ' ' ; adding, that her brother Charles would 
transact the affair with a bookseller at a distance, so that 
her name could never transpire, and only entreating that 
he would not himself ask to see the manuscript. " His. 
amazement was even surpassed by his amusement ; and 
his laugh was so gay that, revived by its cheering sound, 
she lost all her fears and embarrassment, and heartily 
joined in it, though somewhat at the expense of her new 
author-like dignity." 

Dr. Burney thought her project as innocent as it was 

consent"^^ ^ whimsical, and kindly embracing her, enjoined her to be 

careful in guarding her own i7icognita, and then dropped 

the subject without even asking the name of her book. 

With heightened spirits she now sent the manuscript 
to the publisher, who, in a few days, signified his ap- 
probation, proposing to pay twenty pounds for it — 



Evelina and Dr. Johnson. 



265 



Sudden 
celebrity. 



"an offer which was accepted with alacrity, and bound- 
less surprise at its magnificence ! " 

In the ensuing January, 1778, "Evelina" was pub- 
lished, a fact which only became known to its writer 
from her hearing the newspaper advertisement read 
accidentally at breakfast-time, by her step-mother, Mrs. 
Burney. 

The immediate advantage that Miss Burney derived 
from her sudden celebrity as the authoress of ' ' Evelina ' ' 
was her acquaintance with the great Dr. Johnson. He 
v/as delighted with the book, and still more delighted 
when he learned that it was written by the daughter of 
his friend Dr. Burney, who had desired early in the 
matter that Mrs. Thrale should be let into the secret. 
Fanny writes to her father upon this. 

As to Mrs. Thrale — your wish of telling her quite unmans 
me ; I shook so when I read it that, had anybody been present, 
I must have betrayed myself. 

But if you do tell Mrs. Thrale, won't she think it strange 
where I can have kept company, to describe such a family as 
the Branghtons, Mr. Smith, and some others? Indeed (thank 
heaven !), I don't myself recollect ever passing half-an-hour at 
a time with any one person quite so bad ; so that I am afraid 
she will conclude I must have an innate vulgarity of ideas, to 
assist me with such coarse coloring for the objects of my imagi- 
nation. Not that I suppose the book would be better received 
by her for having characters very pretty and all alike. 

And when the lady's approbation was secure, she 
writes to Susan : 

Mrs. Thrale ! she — she is the goddess of my idolatry ! — ^What 
an ilo^e is hers ! — an Hoe:e that not only delights at first, but Mrs. Thraie's 

, n- .•^.r ., ,. approbation. 

proves more and more flattermg every time it is considered ! 

I often think when I am counting my laurels, what a pity it 
would have been had I popped off in my last illness, without 
knowing what a person of consequence I was ! — and I some- 
times think that, were I now to have a relapse, I could never go 



266 Men arid Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 



Dining at 
Streatham. 



Dr. Johnson at 
dinner. 



off with SO much eclat! I am now at the summit of a high 
hill ; my prospects on one side are bright, glowing, and invit- 
ingly beautiful ; but when I turn round, I perceive, on the other 
side, sundry caverns, gulfs, pits, and precipices, that, to look at, 
make my head giddy and my heart sick. I see about me, 
indeed, many hills of far greater height and sublimity ; but I 
have not the strength to attempt climbing them ; if I move, it 
must be downwards. I have already, I fear, reached the pin- 
nacle of my abilities, and therefore to stand still will be my best 
policy. 

Mrs. Thrale soon invited her, with her father, to dine 
at Streatham. 

London, August. — I have now to write an account of the 
most consequential day I have spent since my birth ; namely, 
my Streatham visit. 

Our journey to Streatham was the least pleasant part of the 
day, for the roads were dreadfully dusty, and I was really in the 
fidgets from thinking what my reception might be, and from 
fearing they would expect a less awkward and backward kind 
of person than I was sure they would find. 

Mr. Thrale's house is white, and very pleasantly situated, in a 
fine paddock. Mrs. Thrale was strolling about, and came to us 
as we got out of the chaise. 

" Ah," cried she, " I hear Dr. Barney's voice ! and you have 
brought your daughter? — well, now you are good ! " 

She then received me, taking both my hands, and with 
mixed politeness and cordiality welcoming me to Streatham. 
When we were summoned to dinner, Mrs. Thrale made my 
father and me sit on each side of her. I said that I hoped I 
did not take Dr. Johnson's place — for he had not yet appeared. 

"No," answered Mrs. Thrale, "he will sit by you, which I 
am sure will give him great pleasure." 

Soon after we were seated this great man entered. I have so 
true a veneration for him that the very sight of him inspires me 
with delight and reverence, notwithstanding the cruel infirmities 
to which he is subject ; for he has almost perpetual convulsive 
movements, either of his hands, lips, feet, or knees, and some- 
times of all together. 

Mrs. Thrale introduced me to him, and he took his place. 



Evelina and Dr. Johnson. 



267 



We had a noble dinner and a most elegant dessert. Dr. John- 
son, in the middle of dinner, asked Mrs. Thrale what was in 
some little pies that were near him. 

"Mutton," answered she, "so I don't ask you to eat any, 
because I know you despise it." 

" No, madam, no," cried he ; "I despise nothing that is good 
of its sort ; but I am too proud now to eat of it. Sitting by 
Miss Burney makes me very proud to-day ! " 



Some time after the doctor began laughing to himself, and 
then, suddenly turning to me, he called out, "Only think, 
Polly ! Miss has danced with a lord ! " 

"Ah, poor Evelina! " cried Mrs. Thrale, "I see her now in 
Kensington Gardens. What she must have suffered ! Poor Evelma again, 
girl ! what fidgets she must have been in ! And I know Mr. 
Smith, too, very well ; — I always have him before me at the 
Hampstead Ball, dressed in a white coat and tambour waist- 
coat, worked in green silk. Poor Mr. Seward ! Mr. Johnson 
made him so mad t'other day ! 'Why, Seward,' said he, ' how 
smart you are dressed ! why, you only want a tambour waist- 
coat to look like Mr. Smith ! ' But I am very fond of Lady 
Louisa ; I think her as well drawn as any character in the 
book ; so fine, so affected, so languishing, and, at the same 
time, so insolent ! " 

She then ran on with several of her speeches. 

Some time after, she gave Dr. Johnson a letter from Dr. 
Jebb, concerning one of the gardeners who is very ill. When 
he had read it, he grumbled violently to himself, and put it 
away with marks of displeasure. , 

"What's the matter, sir?" said Mrs. Thrale ; "do you find 
any fault with the letter ? " 

"No, madam, the letter is well enough, if the man knew how 
to write his own name ; but it moves my indignation to see 
a gentleman take pains to appear a tradesman. Mr. Branghton 
would have written his name with just such beastly flourishes." 

As everybody was talking about her book, while 

.^^ ... , • 1 1 1 1 Talk about the 

Fanny was stnl unknown as its author, she heard many book, 
amusing comments from such visitors at Mrs. Thrale' s 
as these : 



268 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 



Opinion of 

Edmund 

Burke. 



Dr. Johnson 
with the 
Thrales. 



" A gentleman whom we know very well," said Miss Palmer, 
" when he could learn nothing at the printer's, took the trouble 
to go all about Snow Hill, to see if he could find any silver- 
smith's." 

"Well, he was a cunning creature ! " said Mrs. Thrale ; "but 
Dr. Johnson's favorite is Mr. Smith." 

"So he is of everybody," answered she; "he and all that 
family : everybody says such a family never was drawn before. 
But Mrs. Cholmondeley's favorite is Madame Duval ; she acts 
her from morning to night, and ma-fots everybody she sees. 
But though we all want so much to know |;he author, both Mrs. 
Cholmondeley and my uncle himself say they should be 
frightened to death to be in her company, because she must be 
such a very nice observer that there would be no escaping her 
with safety." 

What strange ideas are taken from a mere book reading ! 
But what follows gave the highest delight I can feel. 

"Mr. Burke," she continued, "doats on it: he began it one 
morning at seven o'clock and could not leave it a moment ; he 
sat up all night reading it. He says he has not seen such a 
book he can't tell when." 

Mrs. Thrale gave me involuntarily a look of congratulation, 
and could not forbear exclaiming, "How glad she was Mr. 
Burke approved it ! " 

I make these quotations from Miss Burney's diary, 
which has page upon page of such description, to show 
how the poHte world was delighted with the vulgar folks 
in ' ' Evelina, ' ' and also for the glimpse they give of Dr. 
Johnson. 

This great big celebrated man was now firmly estab- 
lished in the house of the Thrales, who with much good 
nature allowed him to be there. Mr. Thrale, in the be- 
ginning, was much charmed with Johnson's conversation 
and apparently commanded, rather than persuaded, his 
wife to add him to their household if possible as a per- 
manent inmate. The great man availed himself of the 
hospitality held out to him, and in 1766 began a tenancy 
of sixteen years under their roof. 



Evelina and Dr. Johnson. 269 

He was therefore absolutely a fixture in the family 
when Fanny Burney met him there in 1778. When he 
first came to the Thrales' he was fifty-six, short-sighted, 
afflicted with stertorous breathing ; he dressed shabbily 
and seldom attended to the cleanliness of his linen. His 
wigs were so scrubby and so burnt away In front by ?^^??"*' 
contact with candles, that Mr. Thrale's valet had much 
ado to make him presentable for the dinner-table. At 
any meal he usually busied himself so intently that the 
veins in his forehead swelled, and the perspiration broke 
out upon him. His voice was loud, and of course his 
manners were dictatorial. He was so fond of late hours 
that the servants of the house looked upon him as the 
curse of the establishment. 

"I lie down, ' ' he used to say, ' ' that my acquaint- 
ances may sleep ; but I lie down to endure oppressive 
misery and soon rise again to pass the night in anxiety sleepless 
and pain." When the candles did not burn brightly he 
would seize them and turn them upside down till they 
improved, the droppings falling to the carpet. He never 
was in time for breakfast. He was ever quarreling with 
Mrs. Thrale's mother, who was also an inmate of the 
house, and whom he loved to irritate. He likewise 
would be very rude, on occasion, to visitors whom the 
Thrales might ask to their table. All this, together 
with Johnson's frequent illnesses, these generous hosts 
tolerated for so many years, in order to cherish a man 
who was great at the bottom of his heart, and whom 
they had the sense and charity to rate at his inner 
worth. There is no record of Mrs. Thrale's having once Mrs. Thrale's 
lost her temper with the shaggy philosopher, irritating 
to any hostess as his habits must have been. She her- 
self records with a pardonable pride that she had never 
anything to blame herself for in her attentions to him. 



good-nature. 



270 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 

But Samuel Johnson was a great man, and it is a proof 
of it that everybody tolerated his eccentricities, con- 
doned his untidiness, and — loved him. 

He wrote a quantity of things, now generally con- 
ceded to be dull ; to quote from his ' ' Rasselas ' ' would 
add nothing to our knowledge of the manners of his 
own time ; while his own manners, as we have seen, 
must be taken as an exception from the general rule of 
the day, which was in favor of elegance and punctilio. I 
will give this passage of his too heavily loaded style as 
a specimen of what is meant by "Johnsonese." 

The proverbial oracles of our parsimonious ancestors have 
informed us that the fatal waste of fortune is by small expenses, 
Specimen of by the profusion of sums too little singly to alarm our caution, 
and which we never suffer ourselves to consider together. Of 
the same kind is the prodigality of life ; he that hopes to look 
back hereafter with satisfaction upon past years must learn to 
know the present value of single minutes, and endeavor to let 
no particle of time fall useless to the ground. 

A simple writer would have expressed this in some 
such way as the following : 

Take care of the pennies, says the thrifty old proverb, and 
the pounds will take care of themselves. In like manner we 
might say, Take care of the minutes and the years will take 
care of themselves. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

Evelina, with Introduction by Annie Raine Ellis. ( London, 
1892.) 
Diary of Madame d'Arblay. Fanny Burney. 
English Poetesses. (Mrs. Thrale.) Eric S. Robertson. 
Samuel Johnson. Leslie Stephen. (Men of Letters Series.) 



BOOK IX. 
BEAU NASH AND BATH. 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

One of the good-natured things, among those that 
Goldsmith was doing all the time, was to write a life 
of Beau Nash, the monarch of Bath. Besides being a 
truthful biography of that singular man, it is interesting ^a.t?rin°"^^ace 
for its description of how things were carried on in the 
leading watering place of the eighteenth century. 

Bath at that time was what Newport was in our own 
country fifty years ago, and what Narragansett Pier fain 
would be to-day — the resort of the fashionable people in 
the season when they wished to divert themselves away 
from London. It was so well known, and so indis- 
pensable, so to speak, that all the real people we are 
now reading about are mentioned as resorting thither 
and all the make-believe people in the novels make a 
point of doing so. Some account of Bath, therefore, 
seems an important detail in our study of the manners 
of the century. 

This is what Baedeker's Great Britain (1894) says 
about it : 

Bath, the chief place in Somerset, is a handsome town of 

SI, 844 inhabitants, beautifully situated in the valley of the Avon Some facts 

, , , /- , ,. 1 Ml 1 • 1 concerning It. 

and on the slopes of the surrounding hills, and is perhaps 

unrivaled among provincial English towns for its combination 

of archaeological, historic, scenic, and social interests. It is a 

city of crescents and terraces, built in a very substantial manner 

of fine gray limestone, and rising tier above tier to a height of 



272 Men and Man7iers of the Eighteenth Century. 



Traditional 
discovery of 
Bath. 



Goldsmith's 
intentions. 



Family of 
Beau Nash. 



about six hundred feet. Among the most characteristic streets 
are the Royal Lansdown and Camden Crescents, the Circus and 
Pulteney Street, all of which recall similar streets in Edin- 
burgh. Milsom Street is the fashionable street. 

Tradition ascribes the discovery of the springs of Bath to an 
ancient British prince named Bladud who was afflicted with 
leprosy and observed their beneficial effects on a herd of swine 
suffering from a similar disease. The therapeutic value of the 
waters did not escape the eyes of the bath-loving Romans, who 
built here a large city, with extensive baths and temples, of 
which numerous remains have been discovered. 

So much for Baedeker. We will now turn to Gold- 
smith's more genial, though less statistic style. 

I profess to write the history of a man placed in the middle 
ranks of life ; of one whose vices and virtues were open to the 
eye of the most undiscerning spectator ; who was placed in 
public view without power to repress censure or command 
admiration ; who had too much merit not to be remarkable, 
yet too much folly to arrive at greatness. I attempt the char- 
acter of one who was just such a man as probably you or I may 
be , but with this difference, that he never performed an action 
which the world did not know, or ever formed a wish which he 
did not take pains to divulge. In short I have chosen to write 
the life of the noted Mr. Nash, as it will be the delineation of a 
mind without disguise, of a man ever assiduous without indus- 
try and pleasing to his superiors without any superiority of 
genius or understanding. 

It is a matter of very little importance who were the parents, 
or what was the education, of a man who owed so little of his 
advancement to either. He seldom boasted of family or learn- 
ing, and his father's name and circumstances were so little 
known that Dr. Cheyne used frequently to say that Nash had 
no father. The Duchess of Marlborough one day rallying him 
in public company upon the obscurity of his birth, compared 
him to Gil Bias, who was ashamed of his father. "No, 
madam," said Nash, "I seldom mention my father in company, 
not because I have any reason to be ashamed of him, but 
because he has some reason to be ashamed of me." 



His father had strained his little income to give his son such 



Beau Nash and Bath. 



273 



an education, but from the boy's natural vivacity, he hoped 
a recompense from his future preferment. In college, however, 
he soon showed that though much might be expected from his 
genius, nothing could be hoped from his industry. A mind 
strongly turned to pleasure always is first seen at the university : 
there the youth first found himself freed from the restraint of 
tutors, and being treated by his friends in some measure as a 
man, assumes the passions and desires of a ripe age, and dis- 
covers in the boy what are likely to be the affections of his 
maturity. 

. . . When King William was on the throne, Mr. Nash was 
a member of the Middle Temple. It had long been customary 
for the Inns of Court to entertain our monarchs upon their 
accession to the crown, or some such remarkable occasion, 
with a revel and pageant. In the earlier periods of our history, 
poets were the conductor of these entertainments ; plays were 
exhibited and complimentary verses were then written ; but by 
degrees the pageant alone was continued. Sir John Davis being 
the last poet that wrote verses upon such an occasion, in the 
reign of James I. 

This ceremony, which has been at length totally discontinued, 
was last exhibited in honor of King William, and Mr. Nash 
was chosen to conduct the whole with proper decorum. He 
was then but a very young man ; but we see at how early an 
age he was thought proper to guide the amusements of his 
country, and be the arbiter elegantiarum of his time ; we see 
how early he gave proofs of that spirit of regularity for which 
he afterward became famous, and showed an attention to 
those little circumstances, of which, though the observance be 
trifling, the neglect has often interrupted men of the greatest 
abilities in the progress of their fortunes. 

Nash was now fairly for life entered into a course of gaiety 
and dissipation, and steady in nothing but the pursuit of 
variety. He was thirty years old, without fortune, or useful 
talents to acquire one. He had hitherto only led a life of 
expedients ; he thanked chance alone for his support, and 
having been long precariously supported, he became at length 
totally a stranger to prudence or precaution. Not to disguise 
any part of his character, he was now by profession a gamester, 
and went on from day to day, feeling the vicissitudes of rapture 
and anguish in proportion to the fluctuations of fortune. 



Early educa- 
tion. 



Member of 
Middle Temple. 



Conducts 
a pageant. 



274 Meii and Manners of the Eightee^ith Centtiry. 



Gaming in 
London. 



^ueen Anne at 
Bath. 



At this time London was the only tlieater in England for 
pleasure or intrigue. A spirit of gaming had been introduced 
in the licentious age of Charles II. and had by this time thriven 
surprisingly. Yet all its devastations were confined to London 
alone. So this great mart of every folly sharpers from every 
country daily arrived for the winter ; but were obliged to leave 
the kingdom at the approach of summer, in order to open 
anew campaign at Aix, Spa, or The Hague. Bath, Tunbridge, 
Scarborough, and other places of the same kind here, were 
then frequented only by such as really went for relief; the 
pleasures they afforded were merely rural ; the company splen- 
etic, rustic, and vulgar. In this situation of things people of 
fashion had no agreeable summer retreat from the town, and 
usually spent that season amidst a solitude of country squires, 
parsons' wives, and visiting tenants or farmers ; they wanted 
some place where they might have each other's company, and 
win each other's money, as they had done during the winter in 
town. 

Queen Anne visited Bath in 1702 and this set the 
fashion. There were so few people that they danced 
in the bowhng-green to the music of the fiddle and haut- 
boy, and sauntered about under the sycamore trees. 

Still the amusements of the place were neither elegant 
nor conducted with delicacy. General society among people 
of rank or fortune was by no means established. The no- 
bility still preserved a tincture of Gothic haughtiness, and 
refused to keep company with the gentry at any of the public 
entertainments of the place. Smoking in the rooms was per- 
mitted ; gentlemen and ladies appeared in a disrespectful 
manner at public entertainments in aprons and boots. With an 
eagerness common to those whose pleasures come but seldom, 
they generally continued them too long ; and thus they were 
rendered disgusting by too free an enjoyment. If the company 
■ liked each other, they danced till morning ; if any person lost at 
cards, he insisted on continuing the game till luck should turn. 

The lodgings for visitants were paltry, though expensive ; 
the dining-rooms and other chambers were floored with boards 
colored brown with soot and small beer to hide the dirt ; the 
walls were covered with unpainted wainscot ; the furniture cor- 



Beau Nash and Bath. 275 

responded with the meanness of the architecture ; a few oak- 
chairs, a small looking glass, with a fender and tongs, com- 
posed the magnificence of these temporary habitations. The 
city was in itself mean and contemptible ; no elegant buildings, 
no open streets, no uniform squares. The pump-house was ofthe dfy. 
without any director ; the chairmen permitted no gentlemen or 
ladies to walk home by night without insulting them, and to 
add to all this, one of the greatest physicians of his age con- 
ceived a design of ruining the city, by writing against the effi- 
cacy of the waters. It was from a resultment of some affronts 
he had received there that he took this resolution, and ac- 
cordingly published a pamphlet, by which he said "he would 
cast a toad into the spring. ' ' 

In this situation it was that Nash first arrived in Bath. 
He promised to charm away the toad. He hired a 
band of music. The company increased. Nash tri- 
umphed and became the monarch of the little state 
of Bath. 

The balls began at six and ended at eleven. Every- 
thing was performed in proper order. The ball opened Conduct of the 
with a minuet danced by the two persons of highest dis- 
tinction present. When the minuet was over the lady 
returned to her seat, and Nash took the gentleman to a 
new partner, every gentleman being obliged to dance 
twice, until the minuets were over, which generally 
lasted two hours. At eight began the country dances, 
ladies of quality according to their rank standing up first. 
At nine o' clock was a short interval for rest, when the 
gentlemen helped their partners to tea. After this the 
dancing continued till the clock struck eleven, when the 
master of ceremonies entered the ball-room and ordered 
the music to desist by lifting up his finger. This 
stopped the dancing, and, some time allowed for becom- 
ing cool, the ladies were handed to their chairs. 

He was not less strict with regard to the dresses. He 
had the strongest aversion to a white apron and abso- 



balls. 



276 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 

lutely excluded them. He had still more trouble with 

the gentlemen, in stopping the use of the sword, but in 

this he triumphed at last, as well as concerning boots. 

Swords and which he would not permit to be worn. By ridicule he 

boots forbid- . . 

den. succeeded in breaking up this custom, and few men 

ventured to be seen at the assembies in Bath in a riding 
dress. If any gentleman through ignorance or haste 
appeared in the rooms in boots, Nash, bowing, would 
tell him that ' ' he had forgot his horse. ' ' 



CHAPTER XXIX. 



The city of Bath, by such assiduity, soon became the theater 
of summer amusements for all people of fashion ; and the ^^^^ ^^^ resort 
manner of spending the day there must amuse any but such as fashion, 
disease or spleen had made uneasy to themselves. The follow- 
ing is a faint picture of the pleasures that scene affords. Upon 
a stranger's arrival at Bath he is welcomed by a peal of the 
abbey bells, and, in the next place, by the voice and music of 
the city waits. For these civilities, the ringers have generally a 
present made them of half a guinea, and the waits of half a 
•crown or more, in proportion to the person's fortune, gener- 
osity, or ostentation. These customs, though disagreeable, are, 
however, liked, or they would not continue. The greatest 
incommodity attending them is the disturbance the bells must 
give the sick. But the pleasure of knowing the name of every 
family that comes to town recompenses the inconvenience. 
Invalids are fond of news, and upon the first sound of the bells 
everybody sends out to inquire for whom they ring. 

After the family is thus welcomed to Bath, it is the custom . . 

for the master of it to go to the public places, and subscribe to amusements, 
two guineas at the assembly houses toward the balls and music 
in the pump-house, for which he is entitled to three tickets 
every ball night. His next subscription is a crown, half a 
guinea, or a guinea, according to his rank and quality, for the 
liberty of walking in the private walks belonging to Simpson's 
assembly house ; a crown or half a guinea is also given to the 
booksellers, for which the gentleman is to have what books he 
pleases to read at his lodgings, and at the coffee-house another , / 
subscription is taken for pen, ink, and paper, for such letters as 
the subscriber shall write at it during his stay. ,The ladies, too, 
may subscribe to the booksellers, and to a house by the pump- 
Toom, for the advantage of reading the news and for enjoying 
■each other's conversation. 

Things being thus adjusted, the amusements of the day are 
generally begun by bathing, which is no unpleasing method of 
passing away an hour or so. 

277 



278 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 



Program of 
pleasure. 



Concert break-' 

fasts. 



The hours for bathing are commonly between six and nine in 
the morning, and the baths are every morning supplied with 
fresh water ; for when the people have done bathing, the 
sluices in each bath are pulled up, and the water is carried ofF 
by drains into the river Avon. 

In the morning the lady is brought in a close chair, dressed 
in her bathing clothes, to the bath ; and, being in the water, the 
woman who attends presents her with a little floating dish like 
a basin ; into which the lady puts a handkerchief, a snuff-box, 
and a nosegay. She then traverses the bath ; if a novice, with 
a guide ; if otherwise, by herself; and having amused herself 
thus while she thinks proper, calls for her chair, and returns to 
her lodgings. 

The amusement of bathing is immediately succeeded by a 
general assembly of people at the pump-room ; some for plea- 
sure, and some to drink the hot waters. Three glasses at three 
different times is the usual portion for every drinker ; and the 
intervals between every glass are enlivened by the harmony of 
a small band of music, as well as by the conversation of the 
gay, the witty, or the forward. 

From the pump-room the ladies, from time to time, with- 
draw to a female coffee-house, and from thence return to their 
lodgings to breakfast. The gentlemen withdraw to their coffee- 
houses, to read the papers, or converse on the news of the day, 
with a freedom and ease not to be found in the metropolis. 

People of fashion make public breakfasts at the assembly 
houses, to which they invite their acquaintances, and they 
sometimes order private concerts ; or, when so disposed, 
attend lectures on the arts and sciences, which are frequently 
taught there in a pretty superficial manner, so as not to tease 
the understanding, while they afford the imagination some 
amusement. The private concerts are performed in the ball- 
rooms ; the tickets a crown each. 

Concert breakfasts at the assembly house sometimes make 
also a part of the morning's amusement here, the expenses of 
which are defrayed by a subscription among the men. Per- 
sons of rank and fortune who can perform are admitted into 
the orchestra, and find a pleasure in joining with the per- 
formers. 

Thus we have the tedious morning fairly over. When nooa 
approaches, and church ( if any please to go there ) is done, some 



Beau Nash and Bath. 



279 



The dinner- 
hour. 



of the company appear upon the parade, and other public walks, 
where they continue to chat and amuse each other, till they 
have formed parties for the play, cards, or dancing for the 
evening. Another part of the company divert themselves 
with reading in the booksellers' shops, or are generally seen 
taking the air and exercise, some on horseback, some in 
coaches. Some walk in the meadows round the town, winding 
along the side of the river Avon and the neighboring canal ; 
while others are seen scaling some of those romantic precipices 
that overhang the city. 

When the hour of dinner draws nigh, and the company are 
returned from their different recreations, the provisions are 
generally served with the utmost elegance and plenty. Their 
mutton, butter, fish, and fowl, are all allowed to be excellent, 
and their cookery still exceeds their meat. 

After dinner is over, and evening prayers ended, the company 
meet a second time at the pump-house. From this they retire 
to the walks, and from thence go to drink tea at the assembly 
houses, and the rest of the evenings are concluded either with 
halls, plays, or visits. A theater was erected in the year 1705, 
by subscription, by people of the highest rank, who permitted 
their arms to be engraven on the inside of the house, as a 
public testimony of their liberality toward it. Every Tuesday 
and Friday evening is concluded with a public ball, the contri- 
butions to which are so numerous that the price of each ticket divers?mis, 
is trifling. Thus Bath yields a continued rotation of diversions, 
and people of all ways of thinking, even from the libertine to 
the Methodist, have it in their power to complete the day with 
employments suited to their inclinations. 

The equipage of Beau Nash was sumptuous, and he usually 
traveled to Tunbridge in a post chariot and six grays, with 
outriders, footmen, French horns, and every other appendage 
of expensive parade. He always wore a white hat, and to 
apologize for this singularity said he did it purely to secure it 
from being stolen ; his dress was tawdry, though not perfectly 
genteel ; he might be considered as a beau of several genera- 
tions, and in his appearance he in some measure mixed the 
fashions of the last age with those of the present. He per- 
fectly understood elegant expense, and -generally passed his 
time in the very best company,. if persons of the first distinc- 
tion deserve that title. 



28o Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 

For all this display Nash had no other resource but gambling, 
to which he devoted all his talents. Long practice had given 
him immense skill, although he was not a gamester by tem- 
perament ; he was too emotional and generous to preserve the 
phlegmatic coolness necessary for perfection in the art. 

Moreover, gaming had reached such extremes that 
gambling. in the twelfth year of George II. the prevalent games 

were decreed fraudulent and unlawful. Pharaoh, basset, 
and hazard were now condemned, but the law was 
scarcely made before new games were, invented to elude 
it, and rolly-poUy, Marlborough's battles came up ; but 
especially the E. O. tables, which, by the way, plays a 
conspicuous part in Miss Edgeworth's "Belinda," half 
a century later. 

By the profits of such a table Nash succeeded in 
existing, being mean enough to enter into a confederacy 
with creatures lower than himself to evade the law and 
share the plunder. His transactions in this matter 
Goldsmith calls ' ' the greatest blot in his life ; and this, 
it is hoped, will find pardon." He was cheated by his 
confederates and in time ruined, and began to decline 
from his former favor and esteem, "the just consequence 
of his quitting, though but ever so little, the paths of 
honor." 

He lived to become an old man. As Nestor was a 
Beaif ^^ °^ ^'^^ man of three ages, so Nash sometimes called himself 
a beau of three generations. 

As he grew old and poor, he became garrulous, people grew 
tired of him ; a variety of causes concurred to embitter his de- 
parting life, such as the weakness and infirmities of exhausted 
- nature ; the admonitions of the grave, which aggravated his 
follies into vices ; the ingratitude of his dependents, who for- 
merly flattered his fortunes ; but particularly the contempt of 
the great, many of whom quite forgot him in his wants. Yet 
his death was sincerely regretted by the city to which he had. 
been so long and so great a benefactor. 



Beau Nash and Bath. 281 

He died at his house in St. John's Court, Bath, on the 12th 
of February, 1761, aged eighty-seven years, three months, and His death, 
some days. The day after his death, the mayor called the 
corporation together, when they granted fifty pounds toward 
burying their sovereign with proper respect. After the corpse 
had lain four days, it was conveyed to the abbey church in 
that city, with a solemnity somewhat peculiar to his character. 
About five the procession moved from his house •, the charity 
girls, two and two, preceded ; next the boys of the charity 
school, singing a solemn occasional hymn. Next marched the 
city music, and his own band, sounding at proper intervals a 
dirge. Three clergymen immediately preceded the coffin, 
which was adorned with sable plumes, and the pall supported 
by the six senior aldermen. The masters of the assembly 
rooms followed as chief mourners ; the beadles of that hos- 
pital which he Tiad contributed so largely to endow went 
next ; and last of all the poor patients themselves, the lame, 
the emaciated, and the feeble, followed their old benefactor to 
his grave, shedding unfeigned tears, and lamenting themselves 
in him. 

It would seem that Tunbridge Wells was a sort of 
dependence of Bath, as we may learn by the state in Weiis. 
which he has been said to drive thither. I have a 
colored picture (in Richardson's life) of Tunbridge 
Wells in 1748. It represents the broad parade ground 
before the buildings of the place, a street in fact, but 
more a mall, for there is a row of tremendously tall trees 
on one side, on the other a row of low houses with steep 
slanting, apparently tiled, roofs. An arcade with pil- 
lars runs along the row, with shops behind, and ladies 
and gentlemen of fashion are parading about the walks, 
the ladies in huge hoops, the men in wigs and cocked 
hats. 



CHAPTER XXX. 



Arabella at 
Bath. 



Arabella 
appears at the 
pump-room. 



All of our friends, real or unreal, at any rate those of 
any quality, were at Bath sooner or later. Perhaps the 
first to arrive, in 1752, was Arabella, the heroine of 
"The Female Quixote." Let us read a few of her ex- 
periences, as her eccentricities throw some light on 
the manners of the place. 

After the death of her father, the marquis, Mr. Glan- 
ville's father and sister visited Arabella at the castle, 
now her own, and accompanied by Mr. Glanville they 
all set out in a coach and six, attended by several 
servants on horseback. You remember her home was 
in Wales. 

The ladies, their lodgings having been provided beforehand, 
retired to their different chambers to repose themselves after 
the fatigue of their journey. Miss Glanville the next morning 
prest Arabella to go to the pump-room, assuring her she would 
find a very agreeable amusement. 

Arabella accordingly consented to accompany her, and being 
told the ladies went in an undress of a morning she accommo- 
dated herself to the custom, and went in a negligent dress ; but 
instead of a capuchin she wore something very like a veil of 
black gauze which covered almost all her face and part of her 
waist, and gave her a very singular appearance. Miss Glanville 
was too envious of her cousin's superiority in point of beauty 
to inform her of any oddity in her dress, which she thought 
might expose her to the ridicule of those that saw her, and Mr. 
. Glanville was too little a critic in ladies' apparel to be sensible 
that Arabella was not in the fashion ; and since everything she 
wore became her extremely, he could not choose but think she 
dressed admirably well ; he handed her therefore with a great 
deal of satisfaction into the pump-room, which happened to be 
greatly crowded that morning. 

282 



Beau Nash and Bath. 



283 



The attention of most part of the company was immediately 
engaged by the appearance Lady Bella made. Strangers are Her singular 
here most strictly criticized, and every new object affords a '^^^' 
delicious feast of raillery and scandal. 

The ladies, alarmed at the singularity of her dress, crowded 
together in parties ; and the words, "Who can she be? Strange 
creature ! Ridiculous ! ' ' and other exclamations of the kind 
were whispered, very intelligibly. The men were struck by 
her figure, veiled as she was. Her fine stature, the beautiful 
turn of her person attracted all their notice. Her name and 
quality were presently whispered all over the room. The men, 
hearing she was a great heiress, found greater beauties to 
admire in her person ; the ladies, awed by the sanction of 
quality, dropped their ridicule on her dress, and began to quote 
examples of whims full as inexcusable. One remembered that 
Lady L F. always wore her ruffles reversed ; that the Countess 
of went to court in a farthingale, etc. 

Having consulted her fancy in a rich silver stuff she bought 
for the dress she should wear the next ball night, a person was (-ggtu^jg ^fter 
sent for to make it ; and Arabella, who followed no fashion but the model of 
her own taste, which was formed on the manners of the hero- ""^essju la. 
ines, ordered the woman to make her a robe after the same 
model as the Princess Julia's. The mantua-maker, who 
thought it might do her great prejudice witH her new cus- 
tomer to acknowledge she knew nothing of the Princess Julia, 
or the fashion of her gown, replied at random and with great 
pertness that that taste was quite out, and she would advise 
her ladyship to have her clothes made in the present mode, 
which was far more becoming. 

"You can never persuade me," said Arabella, "that any 
fashion can be more becoming than that of the Princess Julia's, 
who was the most gallant princess upon earth, and knew better 
than any other how to set off her charms. It may be a little 
obsolete now," pursued she, "for the fashion could not but 
alter a little in the compass of two thousand years." 

" Two thousand years, madam !" said the woman, in a great 
surprise. " Lord help us trades-people if they did not alter a dres'smaker''^^ 
thousand times in as many days. I thought your ladyship was 
speaking of the last month's taste, which, as I said before, is 
quite out now." 

" Well," replied Arabella, " let the present mode be what it 



284 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Centtiry. 

will, I insist on having my clothes made after the pattern of 
the beautiful daughter of Augustus, being convinced that none 
other can be half so becoming." 

" What fashion was that, pray, madam ? " said the woman ; "I 
never saw it." 

*'How!" replied Arabella, "have you already forgot the 
fashion of the Princess Julia's robe, which you said was worn 
but last month? or are you ignorant that the Princess Julia and 
the daughter of Augustus is the same person?" 

"I protest, madam," said the woman, extremely confused, 
"I had forgot that till you called it to my mind." 

" Well," said Arabella, "make me a robe in the same taste." 

The dress is described at length and wonderful it 
was, if only that she wore no hoop at that period. The 
tale of the Princess Julia had spread, and all were dis- 
posed for jesting, but " her noble air and the inexpress- 
ible grace which accompanied all her movements drew 
the admiration of the whole assembly." 

They had stayed a long time in Bath, when Sir Charles, hav- 
Arabella. ing affairs that required his presence in London, proposed to 

his niece the leaving Bath in a few days, to which she con- 
sented,' and accordingly they set out for London in Arabella's 
coach and six, attended by the servants on horseback, her 
women having been sent away before in the stage. 

Nothing very remarkable happened during this journey, with 
the exception of several small mistakes of Arabella's, such as 
her supposing a neat country girl, who was riding behind a 
man, to be some lady or princess in disguise forced away by a 
lover she hated, and entreating Mr. Glanville to attempt her 
rescue, who could not be persuaded to believe it was as 
she said, and forbade his son to meddle in other people's 
afifairs. 



Departure of 



CHAPTER XXXI. 



Among the books of this time now forgotten' is 
"Pompey the Little, or the Life and Adventures of a 
Lap-dog" ; it was written by Coventry, about 1750, 
and survived long enough to find a place in Mrs. Bar- 
bauld's " British Novelists." Lady Mary calls it 

a real and exact representatior of life, as it is now acted in Lon- 
don, as it was in my time, and as it will be I do not doubt 
a hundred years hence, with some little variation of dress and 
perhaps of government. I found in it many of my acquaint- 
ances. Lady T. and Lady O. are so well painted, I fancied I 
heard them talk, and have heard them say the very things there 
repeated. 

On such good authority, I take from "Pompey" as 
a specimen of real manners this description of a fine 
gentleman, with the account of a fashionable visit and 
the latest news from Bath. The little book is written 
satirically, and this is of course exaggerated. 

Dress was his darling vanity ; and consequently his rooms 
were more filled with clothes than curiosities : there all the 
pride of Paris was exhibited to view ; suits of velvet and em- 
broidery, sword hilts, red-heeled shoes, and snufF boxes, 
lay about in negligent confusion. Nor did he appear with less 
Sclat without doors ; for he had shown his gilt chariot and bay 
horses in all the streets of gay resort, and was allowed to have 
the most splendid brilliant equipage in London. The club at 
White's voted him a member ; and there was a rivalry among 
the ladies of fashion, who should first engage him to their 
assemblies. Not any one came into the side-box at a play- 
house with so graceful a negligence ; and it was generally 
confessed that he had the most accomplished manner of talk- 
ing nonsense of any man of quality in London. 

The two sisters had lain longer in bed than usual the morn- 
285 



" Pompey the 
Liule." 



Description of a 
fine gentleman. 



The season at 
Bath. 



286 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 

ing after their arrival in town, which was owing to the fatigue 
of their journey. They had but just finished their breakfast at 
twelve o'clock ; Aurora was sitting down to her harpsichord 
and Theodosia reading the play bills for the evening, when the 
door opened and the count was ushered by a servant into 
the room. 

When the first ceremonies were over, and the count had 
expressed the prodigious satisfaction he felt in seeing them re- 
turned to town, he inquired what kind of a season they had at 
Bath. 

"Why, really," said Theodosia, "a vpry good one : there 
were many agreeable people there, and all of them easy and 
sociable ; which made our time pass away cheerfully and 
pleasantly." 

"You amaze me ! " cries the count. " Impossible, madam ! 
How can it be, ladies ? I had letters from Lord Marmozet and 
Lady Betty Scornful, assuring me that, except you and them- 
selves, there were not three decent creatures in the place. I 
have Lady Betty's letter in my pocket, I believe at this 
moment — Oh, no, upon recollection, I put it this morning into 
my cabinet, where I preserve all my letters from people of 
quality." 

Aurora, smothering a laugh, said she was extremely obliged 
to Lord Marmozet and Lady Betty for ranking her and her 
sister in the catalogue of decent beings ; " But surely," added 
she, "they must have been delirious when they wrote their 
letters, for the Bath was extremely full." 

"Full," cries the count, interrupting her ; "oh, madam, that 
is very possible, and yet there might be no company, that is 
none of us ; nobody that one knows ; for as for all the tramon- 
tanes that come by the cross post, we never reckon them any- 
thing but monsters in human shape that serve to fill up the 
stage of life, like ciphers in a play. For instance, you often see 
an awkward girl appear in the rooms with a frosty face, as if she 
was just come from feeding poultry in her father's yard ; or you 
see a booby squire, with a head resembling a stone-ball over 
a gate-post. Now it would be the most ridiculous thing in life 
to call such people company. 'Tis the want of titles and not 
the want of faces that makes a place empty ; for if there is 
nobody one knows, if there is none of us in a place, we esteem 
all the rest as mob and rabble." 



Beau Nash and Bath. 287 

In Smollett's " Humphrey Clinker," written in 1766, 
there is a good deal about Bath, We saw something " ^"'"P|',''^y 
of Smollett in connection with Goldsmith, as one of the 
set of brilliant writers of our period. His books are 
little read now, and almost forgotten, but, like himself, 
found favorites during his life. The omnivorous Lady 
Mary enjoyed him ; she v/rites, after receiving his trans- 
lation of ' ' Don Quixote ' ' : 

I am sorry my friend Smollett loses his time in translations. 
He has certainly a talent for invention, though I think it flags a 
little in his last work ( ' ' Count Fathom " ) . " Don Quixote ' ' is 
a difficult undertaking. I shall never desire to read any at- 
tempt to new-dress him. I had rather take pains to understand 
him in the original Spanish than sleep over a stupid trans- 
lation. 

' ' Humphrey Clinker ' ' is all in letters ; and the differ- 
ent characters recount their impressions in characteristic 
ways. This is the description which the sentimental, 
languishing heroine. Miss Lydia Medford, sends to her 
friend. As Beau Nash had died in 1761, at a great age, 
the "pretty little Master of Ceremonies" must have 
been his successor. 

Bath, April 26, 1766. 
To Miss Willis, at Gloucester. 

My Dearest Companion: The pleasure I received from 
yours, which came to hand yesterday, is not to be expressed. Letter from 
Love and friendship are, without doubt, charming passions ; Lydia Medford. 
which absence serves only to heighten and improve. Your 
kind present of the garnet bracelets I shall keep as carefully as 
I preserve my own life ; and I beg you will accept, in return, of 
my heart house-wife, with the tortoise-shell memorandum 
book, as a trifling pledge of my unalterable affection. 

Bath is to me a new world — all is gaiety, good humor, and 
diversion. The eye is continually entertained with splendor of 
dress and equipage ; and the ear with the sound of coaches, 
chaises, chairs, and other carriages. The merry bells ring 
round from morn till night. Then we are welcomed by the 



288 Men a7id Manners of the Eighteenth Centtiry. 



The Master of 
Ceremonies. 



Ladies in the 
bath. 



The pump- 
room. 



city waits in our own lodgings ; we have music in the pump- 
room every morning, cotiUions every forenoon in the room, 
balls twice a week, and concerts every other night, besides pri- 
vate assemblies and parties without number. As soon as we 
were settled in our lodgings, we were visited by the Master of 
the Ceremonies ; a pretty little gentleman, so sweet, so fine, so 
civil, and polite, that in our country he might pass for the 
Prince of Wales : then he talks so charmingly, both in verse 
and prose, that you would be delighted to hear him discourse ; 
for you must know he is a great writer, and has got five trage- 
dies ready for the stage. He did us the favor to dine with us 
by my uncle's invitation ; and the next day squired my aunt 
and me to every part of Bath ; which, to be sure, is an earthly 
paradise. The Square, the Circus, and the Parades put you in 
mind of the sumptuous palaces represented in prints and pic- 
tures ; and the new buildings, such as Princes-row, Harlequin's- 
row, Bladud's-row, and twenty other rows, look like so many 
enchanted palaces raised on hanging terraces. 

At eight in the morning we go in dishabille to the pump- 
room ; which is crowded like a Welch fair ; and there you see 
the highest quality and the lowest trades-folk jostling each 
other, without ceremony, hail-fellow well-met. The noise of 
the music playing in the gallery, the heat and flavor of such a 
crowd, and the hum and buzz of their conversation, gave me 
the headache and vertigo the first day ; but afterward all these 
things became familiar, and even agreeable. Right under the 
pump-room windows is the King's Bath ; a huge cistern, where 
you see the patients up to their necks in hot water. The ladies 
wear jackets and petticoats of brown linen, with chip hats, in 
which they fix their handkerchiefs to wipe the sweat from their 
faces ; but, truly, whether it is owing to the steam that sur- 
rounds them, or to the heat of the water, or the nature of the 
dress, or to all three causes together, they look so flushed, and 
so frightful, that I always turn my eyes another way. 

For my part, I content myself with drinking about half a 
pint of the water every morning. The pumper, with his wife 
and servant, attend within a bar ; and the glasses, of different 
sizes, stand ranged in order before them, so that you have 
nothing to do but to point at that which you choose, and it is 
filled immediately, hot and sparkling from the pump. It is 
the only water I could ever drink without being sick. Far from 



Beau Nash and Bath. 



289 



having that effect, it is rather agreeable to the taste, grateful to 
the stomach, and reviving to the spirits. You cannot imagine 
what wonderful cures it performs. My uncle began with it the 
other day, but he made wry faces in drinking, and I am afraid 
he will leave it off. 

Hard by the pump-room is a coffee-house for the ladies ; but 
my aunt says young girls are not admitted, inasmuch as the Coffee-house, 
conversation turns upon politics, scandal, philosophy, and 
other subjects above our capacity ; but we are allowed to 
accompany them to the booksellers' shops, which are charming 
places of resort, where we read novels, plays, pamphlets, and 
newspapers, for so small a subscription as a crown a quarter ; 
and in these offices of intelligence (as my brother calls them), 
all the reports of the day, and all the private transactions of the 
Bath, are first entered and discussed. From the booksellers' 
shop we make a tour through the milliners and toy-men ; and 
commonly stop at Mr. Gills, the pastry-cook, to take a jelly, a 
tart, or a small basin of vermicelli. There is, moreover, 
another place of entertainment on the other side of the river, 
opposite the Grove, to which the company cross over in a boat. 
It is called the Spring Gardens ; a sweet retreat, laid out in Spring 
walks and ponds, and parterres of flowers ; and there is a long Gardens, 
room for breakfasting and dancing. As the situation is low 
and damp, and the season has been remarkably wet, my uncle 
won't suffer me to go thither, lest I should catch cold ; but my 
aunt says it is all a vulgar prejudice ; and, to be sure, a great 
many gentlemen and ladies of Ireland frequent the place with- 
out seeming to be the worse for it. They say dancing at 
Spring Gardens, when the air is moist, is recommended to 
them as an excellent cure for rheumatism. I have been twice 
at the play, and the decorations of the theater are very fine. 

After all, the great scenes of entertainment at Bath are the 
two public rooms, where the company meet alternatively every 
evening. They are spacious, lofty, and when lighted up 
appear very striking. They are generally crowded with well- 
dressed people, who drink tea in separate parties, play at 
cards, walk, or sit or chat together, just as they are disposed. 
Twice a week there is a ball, the expense of which is defrayed 
by a voluntary subscription among the gentlemen, and every ^-^^ ball-room, 
subscriber has three tickets. I was there Friday last with my 
aunt, under the care of my brother, who is a subscriber. The 



290 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 



Evelina at 
Bath. 



The bathing 
costume. 



place was so hot and the smell so different from what we 
are used to in the country that I was quite feverish when we 
came away. Aunt says it is the effect of a vulgar constitution, 
reared among woods and mountains, and that, as I become 
accustomed to genteel company, it will wear off. But I am 
afraid I have put you out of all patience with this long, uncon- 
nected scrawl ; which I shall therefore conclude, with assuring 
you that neither Bath nor London, nor all the diversions of life, 
shall ever be able to efface the idea of my dear Letty from the 

heart of your ever affectionate, 

Lydia Medford. 

Evelina, just before she became Lady Orville, w^as 
taken to Bath, in company with some of her friends, 
amongst them the beau who tormented her at the ball. 
She writes : 

The charming city of Bath answered all my expectations. 
The Crescent, the prospect from it, and the elegant symmetry 
of the Circus, delighted me. The Parades, I own, rather dis- 
appointed me ; one of them is scarce preferable to some of the 
best paved streets in London ; and the other, though it affords 
a beautiful prospect, a charming view of Prior Park and of the 
Avon, yet wanted something in itself of more striking elegance 
than a mere broad pavement, to satisfy the ideas I had formed 
of it. 

At the pump-room, I was amazed at the public exhibition of 
the ladies in the bath ; it is true, their heads are covered with 
bonnets ; but the very idea of being seen in such a situation by 
whoever pleases to look is indelicate. 

"Really now," cried Mr. Lovel, looking into the bath, "I 
must confess it is, to me, very incomprehensible why the ladies 
choose that frightful unbecoming dress to bathe in ! I have 
often pondered very seriously upon the subject, but could 
never hit upon the reason." 

"Well, I declare," said Lady Louisa, " I should like of all 
things to set something new a-going ; I always hated bathing, 
because one can get no pretty dress for it ! now do, there's a 
good creature, try to help me to something." 

"Who, me ! — O dear, ma'am," said he, simpering, "I can't 
pretend to assist a person of your ladyship's taste ; besides I 



Beau Nash and Bath. 291 

have not the least head for fashions. I really don't think I ever 
invented above three in my life ! but I never had the least turn 
for dress — never any notion of fancy or elegance." 

* ' Oh, fie, Mr. Lovel ! how can you talk so ? " 

"The Bath amusements," said Lord Orville, "have a same- 
ness in them, which, after a short time, renders them rather 
insipid ; but the greatest objection that can be made to the 
place is the encouragement it gives to gamesters." 

"Wh}), I hope, my lord, you would not think of abolishing Q^^y^„ 
gaming,'" cried Lord Merton, "'tis the very zest of life ! Devil 
take me if I could live without it." 

" I am sorry for it," said Lord Orville gravely. 

"Evelina" was written in 1778, yet the same singular 
customs of the pump-room were still extant. 

Horace Walpole had a low opinion of the place, and 
as far as we know avoided it. 

In Miss Austen's " Persuasion," written in 1816, the 
characters visit Bath, no longer in its early splendor, and 
settled into an agreeable resort for people in search of 
health and variety, rather than the excesses of fashion. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

Life of Beau Nash. Oliver Goldsmith. 
Smollett's Life, and Humphrey Clinker, 
Mrs. Barbauid's British Novelists, Vol. 30. 



BOOK X. 

MRS. RADCLIFFE AND HER FOL- 
LOWERS. 



Ann Radcliffe. 



Birth and 
death. 



CHAPTER XXXII. 

The immense success of Walpole's original and really 
clever " Castle of Otranto" encouraged other and more 
accomplished artists to follow in the same track. The 
first name on the list is Ann Radcliffe, whose romances 
exhibit a surprising power over the emotions of fear 
and undefined mysterious suspense. Her two greatest 
works are "The Romance of the Forest" and "The 
Mysteries of Udolpho." Her favorite scenery is that 
of Italy and the south of France, the ruined castles of 
the Pyrenees and the Apennines form the theater, and 
the dark passions of profligate Italian counts the princi- 
pal moving power, of her wonderful fictions. The sub- 
stance of them is all pretty much the same ; mystery is 
the spell; the personages are made to suffer such 
extremities of terror and intense suffering, and, above 
all, suspense, that we sympathize with their fate as if 
they were real. 

Ann Radcliffe was born in London in 1764 ; she died 
there in 1823, Her maiden name was Ward. At the 
-age of twenty-two she married Mr. William Radcliffe, a 
law student, who afterward became the editor and pro- 
prietor of a weekly newspaper. The English Chronicle. 
Her first novel, called the "Castles of Athlin and 
Dunbayne," I have never seen. Probably it no longer 



Mrs. Radcliffe and her Followers. 293 

•exists. It is said to have given no great indication 
of her future powers, though it presented the wild, im- 
probable plot and unnatural characters of her later 
writings. "The Sicilian Romance" is better, and 
"The Romance of the Forest" is sufficient of itself to 
put her at the head of all writers of melodramatic 
romance. "The Mysteries of Udolpho" (1790), how- 
ever, is undoubtedly her masterpiece. Her last novel, 
"The Italian," deals with racks, tortures, dungeons, and 
confessionals, and is not equal to the others. 

The chief peculiarity of Mrs. Radcliffe' s work, in 
which it differs from the plan of the "Castle of Peculiarity of 

^ . Mrs. Rad- 

■Otranto," is that, toward the close of all her stories, she ciiffe'swork. 
■carefully explains away all the mysteries as incidents 
produced by natural and generally insignificant agencies. 
This gives the writer a great deal of trouble, and de- 
tracts from the effect of her powerful descriptions. The 
;strange part of it is that her contemporaries remained 
just as much frightened after the horrors were explained 
as they were before, and real young ladies continued 
to tremble at mysterious sounds and subterranean 
passages, after Mrs. Radcliffe had told them over and 
over again that there was nothing in them. 

Mrs. Radcliffe' s work had many imitators ; and thus 
Tv^as inaugurated a period of intense sentiment and 
effusion of style which produced a quantity of rubbish 
much beloved by our grandmothers. 

But I still find a great charm in Mrs. Radcliffe' s 
■description of scenes she never saw, and must confess 
being able to thrill with the terrors she desires to excite. 
She was an indefatigable writer, and I think her plan 
"was to publish a book once in two years or thereabouts. 
I imagine her sitting comfortably in London and writing 
about crags and ravines in Southern France without any 



294 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 



Three thick 
volumes. 



Opening of 
"The 

Mysteries o 
Udolpho." 



real knowledge of landscape outside of England. It 
seems that she made once a tour through Germany :, 
it is strange that all her novels are laid elsewhere. I do- 
not believe she ever saw Gascony or the Apennines. 
Evidently she was a diligent reader, and wrote with the 
map before her. 

"The Mysteries of Udolpho" is immensely long, three 
thick volumes, of which the plot is most complicated. 
The character of the heroine is sweet and attractive. I 
find her quite human. As for Valancourt, who is, 
in fact, out of the book most of the time, either at the 
wars, or in prison for other people's crimes, he was the 
idol of all novel readers of his day and generation. 

I must limit my extracts chiefly to the description of 
the castle of Udolpho, a universal synonym for terror 
in the latter part of the eighteenth century ; but I 
cannot resist transcribing the opening of the tale, for 
its really graceful expression. Every chapter, by the 
way, has a poetic quotation at its head, and original, 
poems by Mrs. Ann are scattered through all her books. 

. . . Home is the resort 
Of love, of joy, of peace and plenty, where, 
Supporting and supported, polished friends 
And dear relations mingle into bliss. 

— Thomson. 

On the pleasant banks of the Garonne, in the province of 
Gascony, stood, in the year 1584, the chateau of Monsieur St. 
Aubert. From its windows were seen the pastoral landscapes 
of Guienne and Gascony stretching along the river, gay with 
Jiuxuriant woods and vines, and plantations of olives. To the 
south the view was bounded by the majestic Pyrenees, whose 
summits veiled in clouds, or exhibiting awful forms, seen, and 
lost again, as the partial vapors rolled along, were some- 
times barren, and gleamed through the blue tinge of air, and 
sometimes frowned with forests of gloomy pine, that swept 
downward to their base. These tremendous precipices were 



Mrs. Radcliffe and her Followers. 295 

■contrasted by the soft green of the pastures and woods that 
hung upon their skirts ; among whose flocks and herds and 
simple cottages, the eye, after having scaled the cliffs above, 
■delighted to repose. To the north and to the east, the plains of 
Guienne and Languedoc were lost in the mist of distance ; on 
the west Gascony was bounded by the Bay of Biscay. 

There were stirring times in France and Navarre at 
the end of this sixteenth century, but I have never 
encountered any reference in ' ' The Mysteries ' ' to the 
poHtical situation. 

We must leave the pleasant banks of the Garonne and Among the 
convey the reader by force, as Emily was taken, to the ''^p^""'"^^- 
neighborhood of the castle which gives its name to the 
book, situated somewhere among the Apennines. 

Wild and romantic as were these scenes, their character had 
far less of the sublime than had those of the Alps which guard 
the entrance of Italy. Emily was often elevated, but seldom 
felt those emotions of indescribable awe which she had so con- 
tinually experienced in her passage over the Alps. 

Toward the close of day, the road wound into a deep valley. 
Mountains whose shaggy steeps seemed to be inaccessible 
almost surrounded it. To the east a vista opened, and exhib- 
ited the Apennines in their darkest horrors ; and the long 
perspective of retiring summits rising over each other, their 
ridges clothed with pines, exhibited a stranger image of gran- 
deur than any Emily had yet seen. The sun had just sunk 
below the top of the mountains she was descending, whose 
long shadow stretched athwart the valley, but his sloping 
rays shooting through an opening of the cliff touched with a 
yellow gleam the summits of the forest that hung upon the 
opposite steeps, and streamed in full splendor upon the towns 
and battlements of a castle that spread its extensive ramparts 
along the brow of a precipice above. The splendor of these 
illuminated objects was heightened by the contrasted shade 
which involved the valley below. 

"There," said Montoni, speaking for the first time in several 

llOUrs, "is UdOLPHO." Udolpho. 

Montoni is the villain who is in possession of Emily 



296 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 



Fearful 
emotions of 
Emily. 



Her timid 
wonder. 



for the moment, having suddenly married her aunt. 

Emily gazed with melancholy awe upon the castle which she 
understood to be Montoni's — for though it was now lighted up 
by the setting sun, the Gothic greatness of its features, and its 
moldering walls of dark gray stone, rendered it a gloomy and. 
sublime object. As she gazed, the light died away on its walls, 
leaving a melancholy purple tint which spread deeper and 
deeper as the thin vapor crept up the mountain, while the 
battlements above were still tipped with splendor. From these 
too the rays soon faded and the whole edifice was invested 
with the solemn duskiness of evening. . '. . 

At length the carriages emerged upon a heathy rock, and. 
soon after reached the castle gates, where the deep tones of the 
portal bell, which was struck upon to give notice of their 
arrival, increased the fearful emotions that had assailed Emily. 
While they waited till the servant within should come to- 
open the gates, she anxiously surveyed the edifice ; but the 
gloom that overspread it allowed her to distinguish little more 
than a part of its outline, with the mossy walls of the ramparts, 
and to know that it was vast, ancient, and dreary. While 
Emily gazed with awe upon the scene, footsteps were heard 
within the gates, and the undrawing of bolts ; after which an 
ancient servant of the castle appeared, forcing back the huge 
folds of the portal to admit his lord. As the carriage-wheels 
rolled heavily under the portcullis, Emily's heart sunk, and she 
seemed as if she was going into "her prison. 

Another gate delivered them into the second court,, 
grass-grown and more wild than the first. 

The servant who came to light Montoni bowed in silence, and 
the muscles of his countenance relaxed with no symptom of 
joy. Montoni noticed the salutation by a slight motion of his 
head, and passed on ; while his lady [the aunt was with them] 
followed, looking round with a degree of surprise and discon- 
. tent which she seemed fearful of expressing, and Emily, sur- 
veying the extent and grandeur of the hall in timid wonder. 
They approached a marble staircase, where the arches opened 
to a lofty vault from the center of which hung a tripod lamp 
which a servant was hastily lighting, and the rich fret-work of 
the roof, a corridor leading into several upper apartments and 



Mrs. Radcliffe and her Followers. 



297 



a painted window, stretching nearly from the pavement to the 
ceiling of the hall, became gradually visible. 

These people were entirely unexpected by their vas- 
sals at the castle, which explains the lack of preparation. 

Having crossed the foot of the staircase and passed through 
an ante-room, they entered a spacious apartment whose walls, 
wainscoted with black larch wood, the growth of the neighbor- 
ing mountains, were scarcely distinguishable from darkness 
itself. 

" Bring more light," said Montoni as he entered. The serv- 
ant, setting down his lamp, was withdrawing to obey him, when 
Madame Montoni observing that the evening air of this moun- 
tainous region was cold, and that she should like a fire, Mon- 
toni ordered that wood should be brought. 

While he paced the room with thoughtful steps, and Madame 
Montoni sate silently on a couch at the upper end of it, waiting 
till the servant returned, Emily was observing the singular 
solemnity and desolation of the apartment viewed as it now 
was by the glimmer of the single lamp, placed near a large 
Venetian mirror that duskily reflected the scene, with the tall 
figure of Montoni passing slowly along, his ar4Tis folded, and 
his countenance shaded by the plume that waved in his hat. 

This made a terrible impression on the grand- 
mothers. 

From the contemplation of this scene, Emily's mind pro- 
ceeded to the apprehension of what she might suffer in it, till 
the remembrance of Valancourt, far, far distant ! came to her 
heart, and softened it into sorrow. . . . 

Emily rose to withdraw. ' ' Goodnight, madame, ' ' 
she said to her aunt. "But you do not know the way 
to your chamber," said the aunt. As this was obvious, 
a servant was sent for. This was Madame Montoni' s 
maid, Annette, a nice prattling person, who seemed to 
have been finding her way about the castle, and listening 
to alarming tales from the servants. 

They went through corridors and passage-ways, los- 
ing their way, calling in vain for assistance, and finding 



The arrival 
unexpected. 



An impressive 
scene. 



298 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 



Emily's 
chamber. 



A steep, narrow 
staircase. 



A mysterious 
door. 



themselves at last at the head of the marble staircase 
where they started. Annette now found a servant, 
who conducted Emily to her chamber. 

It was in a remote part of the castle at the very end of 
the corridor from which the suite of apartments opened 
through which they had been wandering. The lonely aspect 
of her room made Emily unwilling that Annette should leave 
her immediately, and the dampness of it chilled her with more 
than fear. She entreated Caterina to bring some wood and 
light a fire, of which the bright blaze sornewhat dispelled the 
gloom of the chamber. The maid dismissed, Emily examined 
her room and its furniture. It was lofty and spacious, like those 
she had passed through, and like many of them had its walls 
lined with dark larch wood. The bed and other furniture was 
very ancient, and had an air of gloomy grandeur, like all that 
she had seen in the castle. One of the high casements which 
she opened overlooked a rampart, but the view beyond was 
hid in darkness. 

As she walked round it, she passed a door that was not quite 
shut ; and perceiving that it was not the one through which she 
entered, she brought the light to discover whither it led. She 
opened it, and going forward had nearly fallen down a steep, 
narrow staircase that wound from it, between two stone walls. 
She wished to know to what it led, and was the more anxious 
since it communicated so immediately with her apartment ; but 
in the present state of her spirits she wanted courage to venture 
into the darkness alone. Closing the door, therefore, she en- 
deavored to fasten it, but upon further examination perceived 
that it had no bolts on the chamber side, though it had two on 
the other. By placing a heavy chair against it, she in some 
measure remedied the defect ; yet she was still alarmed at the 
thought of sleeping in this remote room alone, with a door 
opening she knew not whither. 

This anxiety was increased when she came to look at 
this door the next day and found that it had been 
fastened on the outside since she saw it first, by some 
unknown person for some unknown reason. But this 
came later. On the evening we are reading about. 



Mrs. Radcliffe and her Followers. 299 

her thoughts recurred to her strange situation, then turned 
to the image of Valancourt ; her melancholy was assisted 
by the hollow sighing of the wind along the corridor and 
around the castle. The cheerful blaze of the wood had long 
been extinguished, and she sat with her eyes fixed on the 
dying embers, till a loud gust that swept through the corridor 
and shook the doors and casements alarmed her ; for its 
violence had moved the chair she had placed as a fastening, 
and the door leading to the private staircase stood half open. 
Her curiosity and her fears were again awakened. She took 
the lamp to the top of the steps, and stood hesitating whether 
to go down ; but again the profound stillness and gloom of the 
place awed her, and determining to inquire further when day- 
light might assist the search, she closed the door and placed 
against it a stronger guard. 

She now retired to her bed, leaving the lamp burning on the „. ... 
table ; but its gloomy light, instead of dispelling her fear, the castle, 
assisted it ; for by its uncertain rays she almost fancied she saw 
shapes flit past her curtains and glide into the remote obscurity 
of her chamber. The castle clock struck one before she closed 
her eyes in sleep. 

Thus ends Emily' s first night in the castle of Udolpho. 

Next morning, Emily requested to be changed into 
another room without questionable doors and communi- 
cating stairways, but this being refused she determined 
to bear with patience the evil she could not remove. 

In order to make her room as comfortable as possible, she 
unpacked her books, her sweet delight in happier days, and 
her soothing resource in the hours of moderate sorrow ; but 
there were hours when even these failed of their effect, when 
the genius, the taste, the enthusiasm of the sublimest writers 
were felt no longer. 

Her little library being arranged on a high chest, part of the 
furniture of the room, she took out her drawing utensils and Emily's little i 
was tranquil enough to be pleased with the thought of sketch- 
ing the sublime scenes beheld from her windows ; but she sud- 
denly checked this pleasure, not from the difficulty of the 
subject, but because remembering how often she had soothed 
herself by the intention of obtaining amusement of this kind, and 



library. 



300 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Centtiry. 



The veiled 
picture. 



Unsatisfied 
curiosity. 



had been prevented by some new circumstance of misfortune. 

To withdraw her thoughts, however, from the subject of her 
misfortunes, she attempted to read ; but her attention wandered 
from the page, and at length she threw aside the book and de- 
termined to explore the adjoining chambers of the castle. Her 
imagination was pleased with the view of ancient grandeur, 
and an emotion of melancholy awe awakened all its powers, as 
she walked through rooms obscure and desolate, where no 
footsteps had passed probably for many years, and remembered 
all the legends existing of the former possessors of the edifice. 

This brought to her recollection a veiled picture which had 
attracted her curiosity on the preceding night while she, with 
Annette, was vainly seeking her chamber, as they passed 
through one of the vast deserted apartments. 

As she traversed the chambers that led to this one, she found 
herself somewhat agitated ; but a terror of this nature, as it 
occupies and expands the mind, and elevates it to high expec- 
tation, is purely sublime, and leads us, by a kind of fascination, 
to seek even the object from which we appear to shrink. . , . 

Emily passed on with faltering steps ; and having paused a 
moment at the door before she attempted to open it, she then 
hastily entered the chamber, and went toward the picture, 
which appeared to be enclosed in a frame of uncommon size, 
that hung in a dark part of the room. She paused again, and 
then with a timid hand lifted the veil ; but instantly let it fall — 
perceiving that what it contained was no picture, and before 
she could leave the chamber she dropped senseless on the floor. 

Here we must leave the poor Emily ; and if it seems 
cruel to furnish no explanation of what she saw, it is no 
worse than what Mrs. Radclif^e was capable of, for even 
the details of the sight were long denied her readers ; 
and the natural explanation of it, which removed every 
idea of the horrible, to supply its place by that of ex- 
treme unpleasantness, is postponed to the very end of 
the work. 



CHAPTER XXXIII. 

"The Children of the Abbey" was published in 
1796, and has, in a way, survived the greater part 'V^h^ Ahll'^'^^" 
of the romances written after Mrs. Raddiffe. It re- 
mained even to the middle of our century a favorite 
with its own class of readers, and has been several times 
reprinted. It was written by Regina Maria Roche, 
a lady whom I have been unable to find anything 
about. Her style is sprightly and original, and her 
plan differs from that of Mrs. Radcliffe, in that the latter 
deals with ghosts, mysterious sounds, and numerous 
murders that for the most part turn out to amoynt 
in nothing at all ; while Regina Maria keeps a real 
grandmother immured in an abbey for a whole book. 
There is a certain vivacity in the movement of the char- 
acters, which on the whole makes them a bit more 
human than Mrs. Radcliffe' s, but not so much literary 
ability appears in her construction of the plot, if there 
be any. As for the picture of manners, in the extracts I 
give, it is hard to imagine it a very faithful one. Too 
much imagination is mingled with the descriptions for 
them to appear trustworthy. 

Yellow sheafs from rich Ceres the cottage had crowned, 

Green rushes were strewed on the floor ; 
The casements sweet woodbine crept wantonly round, 

And decked the sod seats at the door. 

— Cunningham. 

Hail, sweet asylum of my infancy ! Content and innocence 
reside beneath your humble roof, and charity unboastful of the The first 
good it renders. Hail, ye venerable trees ! my happiest hours 
of childish gaiety were passed beneath your shelter — then, 

301 



302 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 

careless as the birds that sung upon your boughs, I laughed 
the hours away, nor knew of evil. 

Here surely I shall be guarded from duplicity ; and if not 
happy, at least in some degree tranquil. Here unmolested 
may I wait, till the rude storm of sorrow is overblown, and my 
father's arms are again expanded to receive me. 

, Such were the words of Amanda at the beginning of 
the book, but the reader is instantly snatched away to the 
remote past, and a still more remote part of the kingdom 
of Scotland, to learn the early history oi her parents and 
especially of her mother, the unfortunate Malvina. 

Here there was a fine old abbey, belonging to the family 
Fine old abbey of Dunreath ; the high hills which nearly encompassed it were 
ofDunreath. almost all covered with trees, whose dark shades gave an 
appearance of gloomy solitude to the building. 

The present possessor, the Earl of Dunreath, was now far 
advanced in life ; twice had he married, in expectation of a 
male heir to his large estates, and twice he had been 
disappointed. 

Here is the description of two beautiful portraits 
of the earl's daughters, painted by an artist who had 
come to the abbey expressly at his desire, to draw them. 

In one of them Lady Augusta appeared negligently reclined 
upon a sofa, in a verdant alcove ; the flowing drapery of the 
loose robe in which she was habited set off her fine figure ; 
little cupids were seen fanning aside her dark-brown hair, and 
strewing roses on her pillow. 

In the other Lady Malvina was represented in the simple 
attire of a peasant girl, leaning on a little grassy hillock, whose 
foot was washed by a clear stream, while her flocks browsed 
around, and her dog rested beneath the shade of an old tree, 
- that waved its branches over her head, and seemed sheltering 
her from the beams of a meridian sun. 

Marriage of Of thcsc, it was Malvina, the unfortunate and perse- 

Pitzaian. cuted, who unwisely married Fitzalan under the follow- 

ing circumstances : 



Mrs. Radcliffe and her Followers. 303 

It was long past the midnight hour ere Malvina would 
attempt repairing to the chapel ; when she at last rose for that 
purpose she trembled universally ; a kind of horror chilled her 
heart ; she began to fear she was about doing wrong, and 
hesitated ; but when she reflected on the noble generosity of 
Fitzalan, and that she herself had precipitated him into the 
measure they were about taking, her hesitation was over ; 
and leaning on her maid, she stole through the winding 
galleries, and, lightly descending the stairs, entered the long 
hall, which terminated in a dark arched passage, that opened 
into the chapel. 

This was a wild and gloomy structure, retaining everywhere 
vestiges of that monkish superstition which had erected it ; be- 
neath were the vaults which contained the ancestors of the 
Earl of Dunreath, whose deeds and titles were enumerated on 
Gothic monuments ; their dust-covered banners waving around 
in sullen dignity to the rude gale, which found admittance 
through the broken windows. 

No good came of this marriage, except the long and ^^^ children, 
agitating history of their two children, Oscar and Amanda".'^ 
Amanda Malvina, These characters were such favorites 
with the grandmothers, that many children in the early 
years of our century were christened with their names. 
We shall return to the abbey later on, but it is now 
with Amanda Malvina, our heroine, and her hero that 
we have to do. 

Lord Mortimer was now in the glowing prime of life : his 
person was strikingly elegant and his manners insinuatingly 
pleasing ; seducing sweetness dwelt in his smile, and, as he desciibedr""" 
pleased, his expressive eyes could sparkle with intelligence or 
beam with sensibility; and to the eloquence of his language, 
the harmony of his voice imparted a charm that seldom failed 
of being irresistible ; his soul was naturally the seat of every 
virtue ; but an elevated rank, and splendid fortune, had placed 
him in a situation somewhat inimical to their interests, for he 
had not always strength to resist the strong temptations which 
surrounded him ; but though he sometimes wandered from the 
boundaries of virtue, he had never yet entered upon the con- 



304 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Ce^itury. 



Amanda at the 
ball. 



fines of vice — never really injured innocence, or done a deed 
which could wound the bosom of a friend ; his heart was alive 
to every noble propensity of nature ; compassion was one of its 
strongest feelings, and never did his hand refuse obedience to 
the generous impulse. Among the various accomplishments 
he possessed was an exquisite taste for music, which, with 
every other talent, had been cultivated to the highest degree of 
possible perfection ; his spending many years abroad had given 
him every requisite advantage for improving it. The soft, 
melodious voice of Amanda would of itself almost have made 
a conquest of his heart ; but aided by the charms of her face 
and person, altogether were irresistible. 

Their love was progressing favorably until circum- 
stances, and Amanda's father, tore her abruptly away 
from Mortimer, who was not even informed of her 
flight, to the north of Ireland, stopping at Dublin to 
see Oscar, who was there with his regiment. So, in the 
words of the author, 

We shall now bid adieu to Oscar for the present, and, draw- 
ing on our boots of seven leagues, step after Fitzalan and 
Amanda. 

It is possible that the present reader may not see 
Oscar again till the end of these extracts. 

After a pleasant journey, on the evening of the fourth 
day, our travelers arrived at their destined habitation, 
Castle Carberry. Here, strange to say, she found 
good society ; amongst others, fashionable people from 
London, and went to a ball to which she was invited. 

She wore a robe of plain white lutestring, and a crape tur- 
ban, ornamented with a plume of drooping feathers. She had 
no appearance of finery, except a chain of pearls about her 
bosom, from which hung her. mother's picture, and a light 
wreath of embroidered laurel, intermingled with silver blos- 
soms, round her petticoat. Her hair, in its own native and 
glossy hue, floated on her shoulders, and partly shaded a cheek 
where the purity of the lily was tinted with the softest bloom of 
the rose. 



Mrs. Radcliffe and her Followers. 305 

At this ball she met her Dunreath relatives, her aunt, 
Lady Augusta, now Marchioness of Roslin, with her 
disagreeable daughter, Lady Euphrasia. These con- 
nections had cast off her mother, and now ignored her, 
on account of the midnight marriage in the abbey. 

Here also was Lord Mortimer, paying attentions poidnessot 
(though unwillingly) to Lady Euphrasia to oblige his Lord Mortimer, 
father. He took no notice of Amanda Malvina, being, 
with reason, deeply offended with her on account of her 
sudden departure from his neighborhood. So the poor 
girl had but a sad time at the ball, and it would have 
been worse but for a new admirer who was much 
attracted by her charms and extremely kind to her. 

There was an old Lady Greystock at Carberry, who 
took a fancy to Amanda and invited her to travel with 
her to London, as her companion. 

Here she met her cousins again, who could not very , , . 

, , , Amanda m 

well help recognizing her, and accordingly invited her London. 
to dinner and to a brilliant assembly after it, where Lady 
Euphrasia persuaded a ' ' beau " to " quiz the ignorant 
Irish country girl." 

This "fop" is so like Miss Burney's Lovel in 
* ' Evelina, ' ' it would seem that the type really did exist 
in those days. 

"Have you seen any of the curiosities of London, my 
dear?" exclaimed Freelove, lolling back in his chair, and con- 
templating the luster of his buckles, unconscious of the ridicule 
he excited. 

" I think I have," said Amanda, somewhat archly, and glanc- 
ing at him, "quite an original in its kind." Her look, as well 
as the emphasis on her words, excited another laugh at his 
expense, which threw him into a momentary confusion. 

" I think," said he, as he recovered from it, "the Monument 
and the Tower would be prodigious fine sights to you, and I 
make it a particular request that I may be included in your 



3o6 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 



The Tower. 



Belgrave the 
villain. 



Death of 
Fitzalan. 



party whenever you visit them, particularly the last place." 
"And why," repHed Amanda, "should I take the trouble of 
visiting wild beasts, when every day I may see animals equally 
strange, and not half so mischievous ? " 

Freelove, insensible as he was, could not mistake the mean- 
ing of Amanda's words, and he left her with a mortified air, 
being, to use his own phrase, " completely done up." 

The wild beasts at the Tower were the most popular 
sight of London at that time, and hence comes the 
proverb " Seeing the Lions." In the- "Lion Tower" 
the kings of England formerly kept these wild beasts ; 
the first were three leopards presented to Henry IIL by 
the Emperor Frederick, in allusion to the royal arms ; a 
bear from Norway was soon added ; an elephant was 
procured in the same reign, and a lion in the time of 
Edward IL 

There was a shocking villain named Belgrave in the 
book ; and his advances, combined with the machina- 
tions of Euphrasia, who wanted Lord Mortimer for her- 
self, drove Amanda from London. Her father was at 
this time still at Carberry, where Amanda, after endless 
privations and dangers, losing her pocket-book, falling 
ill, at last joined him only to see him die in her arms, 
broken down by his misfortunes. 

She then changed her name and went into a convent, 
to avoid Lord Mortimer, whom, with his dying breath, 
Fitzalan had extracted a promise from her not to marry. 
She changed it again (I think) and strangely enough 
found herself as a governess in the neighborhood of the 
^bbey of Dunreath, where she was of course unknown, 
unrecognized, the family being absent. 

The abbey was one of the most venerable looking buildings 
Amanda had ever beheld ; but it was in melancholy grandeur 
she now saw it — in the wane of its days, when its glory was 
passed away, and the whole pile proclaimed desertion and 



Mrs. Radcliffe and her Followers. 307 

decay. She saw it when, to use the beautiful language of Hutch- 
inson, "its pride was brought low, when its magnificence was The abbey of 
sinking in the dust, when tribulation had taken the seat of hos- Dunreath. 
pitality, and solitude reigned, where once the jocund guest had 
laughed over the sparkling bowl, whilst the owls sang nightly 
their strains of melancholy to the moonshine that slept upon 
its moldering battlements." 

"Am I really," she asked herself, "in the seat of my an- 
cestors ? Am I really in the habitation where my mother was 
born — where her irrevocable vows were plighted to my father ? 
I am ; and oh ! within it may I at last find an asylum from the 
vices and dangers of the world ; within it may my sorrowing 
spirit lose its agitation, and subdue, if not its affections, at 
least its murmurs, at the disappointment of those affections." 

The care-taker, Mrs. Bruce, showed her the different por- 
traits. She suddenly stopped before one. "That," cried she, 
"is the Marchioness of Roslin's, drawn for her when Lady 
Augusta Dunreath." Amanda cast her eyes upon it, and per- 
ceived in the countenance the same haughtiness as still dis- 
tinguished the marchioness. She looked at the next panel, and 
found it empty. 

"The picture of Lady Malvina Dunreath hung there," said 
Mrs. Bruce ; "but after her unfortunate marriage it was taken 
down." "And destroyed!" exclaimed Amanda mournfully. M^lvina's 

" No ; but it was thrown into the old chapel, where, with the portrait again, 
rest of the lumber (the soul of Amanda was struck at these 
words), it has been locked up for years." "And is it impos- 
sible to see it?" asked Amanda. "Impossible, indeed," 
replied Mrs. Bruce. "The chapel and the whole eastern 
part of the abbey have long been in a ruinous situation, on 
which account it has been locked up." Amanda could scarcely 
conceal the disappointment she felt at finding she could not see 
her mother's picture. She would have entreated the chapel 
might be opened for that purpose had she not feared exciting 
suspicions by doing so. 

This desire to find her mother's portrait induced 
Amanda to prowl round the chapel place ' ' with the rest 
of the lumber." The remarkable result was that she 



3o8 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 

actually discovered her own grandmother, alive, who 
had been there for years. 

It was thus. Amanda had discovered a crevice in the 
chapel leading to a chamber, a lofty hall, and some 
stairs. 

Amanda's heart began to beat with unusual quickness, and 

she thought she should never reach the end of the gallery. 

Discovery of a she at last came to a door ; it was closed, not fastened : she 
grandmother. i , , . 

pushed it gently open, and could just discern a spacious room. 

This, she supposed, had been her mother's dressing-room. 
The moonbeams, as if to aid her wish of examining it, suddenly 
darted through the casements. Cheered by the unexpected 
light, she advanced into the room : at the upper end of it some- 
thing in white attracted her notice. She concluded it to be 
the portrait of Lady Malvina's mother, which she had been 
informed hung in this room. She went up to examine it ; but 
her horror may be better conceived than described, when she 
found herself not by a picture, but by the real form of a 
woman, with a death-like countenance ! She screamed wildly 
at the terrifying specter, for such she believed it to be, and 
quick as lightning flew from the room. Again was the moon 
obscured by a cloud, and she involved in utter darkness. She 
ran with such violence that, as she reached the door at the 
end of the gallery, she fell against it. Extremely hurt, she 
had not power to move for a few minutes ; but while she 
involuntarily paused, she heard approaching footsteps. Wild 
with terror, she instantly recovered her faculties, and at- 
tempted opening it ; but it resisted all her efforts. "Protect 
me, Heaven !" she exclaimed, and at the moment felt an icy 
hand upon hers ! Her senses instantly receded, and she sunk 
to the floor. 

The icy hand belonged to her grandmother. 
This formerly wicked but now repentant old lady 
Thesu re sed Promptly produced a will of the late Earl of Dunreath 
will. which she had previously suppressed, leaving all the 

money and estates to Oscar and Amanda. 

Amanda soon made herself known to Lord Mor- 



Mrs. Radcliffe mid her Followers. 309 

timer, who had diHgently been searching for her through 
the greater part of three volumes. Oscar was rescued 
from a debtor's prison, where he had unjustly been cast 
by the villain Belgrave. 

Belgrave had killed himself. Lord Mortimer's father 
was dead, by which he became Lord Cherbury. Oscar, ^^pp^ conciu. 
succeeding to the family title, became Lord Dunreath. 
The wicked are all dead and the living all happy. 
The wedding of Amanda and Lord Cherbury, formerly 
Mortimer, took place at the cottage in Wales where the 
story begins. 



sion. 



CHAPTER XXXIV. 



"The Heroine, 
or Cherubina." 



A mock 
romance. 



In the beginning of our century appeared a burlesque 
upon this class of romances, which had a great success. 
It is in itself decidedly clever, and it is quite evident 
that the romance-readers devoured it with the same zest 
that they had for the tales it parodied. It was written 
by Eaton Stannard Barrett, further described on his 
title-page as "Esquire." Born at Cork in 1786, Bar- 
rett was educated at a school at Wandsworth, and 
afterward entered the Middle Temple. But he never 
seems to have practiced at the bar, and he died pre- 
maturely of consumption in Wales. He made several 
incursions into literature. He wrote a comedy ; he 
wrote political satires against the Whigs of his day, 
of which one, "All the Talents," obtained some con- 
temporary reputation ; and he wrote a Popesque eulogy 
on " Woman," and the "mock romance" of which the 
full title is ' ' The Heroine, or Adventures of Cherubina. ' ' 
It was published in 18 13, dedicated to the Right Hon. 
George Canning, and bore for motto, " L'histoire d'une 
femme est toujours un roman. " 

A later American edition was printed in Baltimore in 
1823; copies of either are rare now, and such as exist 
are still tenderly treasured by the ladies who came to 
possess them in the time when the book was regarded 
as a masterpiece. 

The heroine, named Cherry Wilkinson, is the only 
daughter of a farmer who, by "honest and disgusting 
industry," has acquired — what he could scarcely acquire 
now — a considerable fortune. Cherry's "governess," 

310 



Mrs. Radcliffe and her Followers. 311 

Biddy the maid, who has been discharged for misconduct, 
and who has stuffed her pupil with romance, easily 
persuades her that she is a " child of mystery. ' ' There- a child of 
upon Miss Wilkinson discovers — with the aid of an old ™y^*^^y- 
indenture — that her real name is, or should be, Cheru- 
bina de Willoughby, and that she is called to the career 
of a heroine. For this she has really certain indispen- 
sable physical qualifications. Although but fifteen she is 
tall and "aerial," her hair is flaxen, her face Grecian, 
and her eyes blue and sleepy. She has also, according 
to one of her admirers, "a voice soft as the Creolian 
lyre." Further, she is an adept in most of the other Requisites of 

■^ _ , . the true 

requisites. She can ' ' blush to the tips of her lingers ' ' ; heroine, 
faint at pleasure ; has tears, sighs, and half sighs at 
command ; is mistress of the entire gamut of smiles, 
from fragmentary to fatal, and is fully skilled in the arts 
of gliding, tripping, flitting, and tottering, which last, 
being the "approach movement of heroic distress," is 
the heroine's ne plus ultra. She is also fully posted in 
the obligations of a heroine to ' ' live a month on a 
mouthful," to accomplish long journeys without fatigue, 
and to obtain the necessities of life without the tedious 
formalities of payment. Her really attractive qualities 
are excellent health, great good-nature, and a sense of 
fun which extends even to her noticing herself ridiculous 
occasionally. The book is a series of letters to Biddy ; 
I limit my extracts to the denouement. 

Ok ye, whoever ye are, whom chance or -misfortune may here- 
after conduct to this spot, to you I speak, to you reveal the 
story of my wrongs, and ask you to revenge them,. Vain hope ! th^last Iwok. 
yet it imparts some comfort to believe that what I now write may 
one day meet the eye of a fellow-creature, that the words which 
tell my sufferings may one day draw pity from the feeling heart. 

Know, then, that on the fatal day which saw m.e driven from 
my castle, four m.en in black visors entered the cottage where I 



Tragic 
happenings. 



312 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 

had taken shelter, and forced me and my minstrel into a car- 
riage. We traveled miles in silence. At length they stopped, 
cast a cloak over my face , and carried m,e along winding pas- 
sages, and up arid down flights of steps. They then took off the 
cloak, and I found myself in an antique and Gothic apartment ! 
My coftductors laid down a lamp and disappeared. I heard the 
door barred upon me. O sound of despair ! O tnoment of un- 
utterable anguish! Shut out from day , from, friends , from life 
— in the prime of my years, in the height oftny transgressions — 
I sink under the — 



Alm.ost an hour has now passed in solitude and silence. Why 
am. I brought hither ? Why confined thus rigorously ? O dire 
extremity ! O state of living death ! Is this a vision ? Are 
these things real? Alas, I am, bewildered. 



An ancient 
chamber. 



Such, Biddy, was the manuscript that I scribbled last night 
after the mysterious event which it relates. You shall now 
hear what has occurred since. 

According to common usage, I first took the lamp and began 
examining the chamber. On one wall hung historical arras, 
worked in colorless and rotten worsted, and depicting scenes 
from the Provencal romances ; the deeds of Charlemagne and 
his twelve peers ; the crusaders, troubadours, and Saracens ; 
and the necromantic feats of the magician Jurl. The remaining 
walls were wainscoted with black larch wood ; and over the 
painted and escutcheoned windows hung iron visors, tattered 
pennons, and broken shields. An antique bed of decayed dam- 
ask stood in a corner ; and a few moth-eaten chairs, tissued and 
fringed with threads of tarnished gold, were round the room. 
At the further end a picture of a warrior on horseback, darting 
his spear into a prostrate soldier, was enclosed in a frame of 
uncommon magnitude that reached down to the ground. An 
old harp which occupied one corner proved imprisonment, and 
some clots of blood upon the floor proved murder. 

I gazed with delight at this admirable apartment ; it was a 
perfect treasure ; nothing could exceed it ; all was in the best 



Mrs. Radcliffe and her Followers. 313 

style of horror, and now for the first time I felt the full and 
unqualified consciousness of being as real a heroine as e^ver 
existed. 

An ancient waiting woman interrupted her delight, 
to whom Cherubina began talking in very old English. 

"And pray, good woman, who is your lord? " 
" Good woman ! " cries she bridling, "no more good woman 
than yourself^Dame Ursaline, if you please." 

She elicited from the old woman that she was in the Baron Hiide- 
keeping of one Baron Hildebrand, and might expect a ^'^^"'^• 
visit from him. 

At last I heard a heavy tread along the corridor ; the door 
was unbarred, and a huge but majestic figure strode into the 
chamber. The black plume towering in his cap, the armorial 
coat, Persian sash, and Spanish cloak, all set off with the most 
muscular frown imaginable, made him look truly tremendous. 

"Lady!" he cried in a voice which vibrated through my 
brain, "I am the Baron Hildebrand, that celebrated ruffian. 
My plans are terrible and unsearchable. Hear me ! " 

He then explained his plans. He had seized Cheru- 
bina in order to force her to marry the Lord Mont- 
morenci, because he wished to prevent this gentleman 
from marrying his daughter, the Lady Sympathina. 
Cherubina was acquainted with Montmorenci, in fact he 
had been doing service as her chief suitor during the 
book. 

"In two days therefore, madam," he concluded, "you will 
give him your hand or suffer imprisonment for life." obstfnacyof 

" My lord, I will not wed Montmorenci," I said, in a tone of Cherubina. 
the sweetest obstinacy. 

He started from his seat, and began to pace the chamber 
with colossal strides. Conceive the scene : the tall figure of 
Hildebrand passing along ; his folded arms ; the hideous deso- 
lation of the room, and my shrinking figure. It was fine, very 
fine. It resembled a pandemonium where a fiend was tor- 
menting an angel of light. Yet insult and oppression had but 



314 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 



Celebrated 
personages. 



Old acquaint- 
ances- 



added to his charms ; as the rose throws forth fresh fragrance 
by being mutilated. He rushed out of the chamber. 

Nothing in nature could be better than my conduct on this 
occasion. I was delighted with it, and with the castle, with 
everything. I therefore knelt and chanted a vesper hymn, so 
soft and solemn ; while my eyes like a Magdelen's were cast to 
the planets. 

Shortly after, our heroine received information of a 
visit she might expect from distinguished individuals 
who were coming to call. 

And now the promised hour was approaching when I should 
see the recorded personages of romance. I therefore heroin- 
ized myself as much as possible, and elegantly leaning on the 
harp awaited their arrival. 

Meanwhile I figured them, adorned with all the venerable 
loveliness of a virtuous old age, even in grayness engaging, 
even in wrinkles interesting. Hand in hand they walk down 
the gentle slope of life, and often pause to look back upon the 
scenes which they have quitted. The happy vale of their 
childhood, the turreted castle, the cloistered monastery. I 
anticipated how this interview with them would improve me in 
my profession. No longer drawing from books alone, I might 
now copy from the original. The hand of a master would 
guide mine, and I should quaff primeval waters from the 
source itself. 

As I sate thus rapt, I heard steps in the passage ; the bolts 
were undrawn, and Sympathina, at the head of the company, 
entered and announced their names. 

Sir Charles Grandison came forward the first. He was an 
emaciated old oddity, and wore flannels and a flowing wig. 

Lady Grandison leaned on his arm, bursting with fat and 
laughter, so unlike what I had conceived of Harriet Byron 
that I turned from her quite disgusted. 

Mortimer Delville came next, and my disappointment at find- 
ing him a plain, sturdy, hard-featured fellow was soon absorbed 
in my still greater regret at seeing his Cecilia — once the blue- 
eyed, sun-tressed Cecilia now flaunting in all the reverend 
graces of a painted grandmother. 

These are characters in Miss Burney's second novel. 



Mrs. Raddiffe and her Followers. 315 

After them advanced Lord Mortimer and his Amanda ; but 
he had fallen into flesh ; and she with a face like scorched 
parchment appeared broken-hearted. I was too much shocked 
and astonished to speak ; but Sir Charles, bowing over my 
hand — his old custom, you know — thus broke silence : 

"Your ladyship may recollect that I have always been cele- 
brated for giving advice — Marry Montmorenci ; trust me, love Sad revela- 
.,- --I • /-, r ■ t\ tions. 

before marriage is the surest preventive of love after it. I know 

most of these heroes and heroines myself, and I know that 
nothing can equal their misery." 

" Do you know Lord Orville and his Evelina ? " said I, "and 
are they not happy? Pray," said I, addressing Amanda, "are 
not your brother Oscar and his Adela happy ? " 

" Alas, no ! " cried she. " Oscar became infatuated with the 
charms of Evelina's old grandmother, Madame Duval, so poor 
Adela left him." 

"How shocking!" said L "But Pamela — the virtuous 
Pamela?" [Richardson's first heroine.] 

"Made somewhat a better choice," said Sir Charles, "for 
she ran off with Rasselas, Prince of Abyssinia, when he re- 
turned to the happy valley." 

There is more of this sort. The same idea has been 
more cleverly carried out in Miss Porter's little play, piay. 
"Place aux Dames," in which the wives of Shake- 
speare's heroes condole with each other over their 
matrimonial infelicities. 

Cherubina, by her natural ready wit, soon escaped 
from the Gothic chamber, but dire disillusion awaited 
her. There was nothing Gothic about the castle, 
which was no castle, but a modern country-house, of Ja'stie^^*^^ "^^ 
which one apartment had been fitted up with old- 
fashioned furniture. 

She came to a room where, concealed by a curtain, 
she could see all her late guests feasting round a supper- 
table, having laid off all disguise. They were engaged 
in laughing at her credulity, amongst them her former 
admirer Montmorenci, whose real name was Abraham 



3i6 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 



Rescue by 

Stuart. 



Wholesome 
ending. 



Grundy, the instigator of the whole affair ; another 
boasted of having enacted the part at a masquerade in 
the beginning of the book of old Whylome Eftsoones, 
in order to make her believe herself, Cherry Wilkinson, 
to bie Lady Cherubina de Willoughby. 

Indignant, she sprang boldly forward amongst them 
all, to be seized fast by one of them, when suddenly he 
was torn from her by Stuart, her honorable and sincere 
lover, who, seeing her good qualities, had been en- 
deavoring, from the beginning, to emancipate her from 
her foolish ones, like Glanville in "The Female 
Quixote," who is equally loyal to Arabella. 

The book soon ends, for Cherry Wilkinson, who is a 
breezy, wholesome sort of a girl, readily shakes off her 
follies and becomes repentant and reasonable. 

Stuart put ' ' Don Quixote ' ' into her hands and ' ' by 
his lively advice and witty reasoning," joined to her 
natural good sense, perfected her mental reformation. 



CHAPTER XXXV. 

Now, Jane Austen, in 1798, wrote her "Northanger 
Abbey, ' ' which is also a burlesque upon the romantic 
novels ; but she evidently had no knowledge of Cheru- j^„g Austens 
bina until much later. ' ' Northanger Abbey ' ' was sold burlesque. 
in 1803, to a publisher in Bath, for ten pounds, but it 
found so little favor in his eyes that he did not venture 
to publish it, and it seems to have remained unnoticed 
in his drawer until after the appearance of ' ' Pride 
and Prejudice," "Mansfield Park," and "Emma." 
Her reputation established, ' ' Northanger Abbey ' ' was 
allowed to come forth in 181 8. 

Meanwhile, while it was still shut up in the drawer, 
but not until 18 14, Miss Austen came upon the work of 
Eaton Stannard Barrett, Esq. She writes her sister 

from London : 

March 2d. 
I finished "The Heroine" last night, and was very much 
amused by it. It diverted me exceedingly. 

And in the same letter, farther on : 

This evening we have drank tea, and I have torn through 
the third volume of "The Heroine." I do not think it falls 
off. It is a delightful burlesque, particularly on the Radcliffe 
style. 

Jane Austen was born in 1775, so she was but twenty- 
three when she wrote ' ' Northanger Abbey, ' ' evidently 
inspired by the foolishness she perceived in the current Austen. "^ 
novels of her time. 

It is a good novel in itself, apart from the satire on 
the older books, although not equal to her maturer 
works, which I may not touch, as they belong to this 

317 



3i8 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 

century ; while I may venture on the extracts that bear 
upon the old novels we have been reading about. 

The adventures of her heroine, Catherine Morland, 
Adventures of took placc in Bath, rather later than our other friends 

another -^ ' 

heroine. report. 

They made their appearance in the lower rooms ; and the 
Master of the Ceremonies introduced to her a very gentleman- 
like young man as a partner ; his name was Tilney. 

Catherine also made the acquaintance of Isabella, and 
this conversation occurred between them in the pump- 
room, one morning. 

"Have you been here long ? " 

" Oh ! these ten ages at least. I am sure I have been here 
this half-hour. But now let us go and sit down at the other 
end of the room and enjoy ourselves. I have a hundred things 
to say to you. In the first place, I was so afraid it would rain 
this morning just as I wanted to set off; it looked very showery, 
and that would have thrown me into agonies ! Do you know, I 
saw the prettiest hat you can imagine in a shop-window in 
Milsom Street just now ; very like yours, only wiih coquelicot 
ribbands instead of green ; I quite longed for it. But, my 
dearest Catherine, what have you been doing with yourself all 
this morning? Have you gone on with ' Udolpho ' ? " 

"Yes, I have been reading it ever since I woke; and I am 
got to the black veil." 

"Are you, indeed? How delightful! Oh! I would not 

Talk about the ■j-gU yQ^ what is behind the black veil for the world ! Are you 
romances. -' •' 

not wild to know ? " 

"Oh ! yes, quite ; what can it be? But do not tell me ; I 
would not be told upon any account. I know it must be a 
skeleton; lam sure it is Laurentina's skeleton. Oh! lam 
delighted with the book ! I should like to spend my whole life 
in reading it, I assure you ; if it had not been to meet you, I 
would not have come away from it for all the world." 

" Dear creature ! how much I am obliged to you ; and when 
you have finished 'Udolpho,' we will read "The Italian" to- 
gether ; and I have made out a list of ten or twelve more of 
the same kind for you." 



Mrs. Radcliffe and her Followers. 319 

Mr. Tilney proved a very agreeable acquaintance, a 
sensible, well-bred young gentleman fitting for the acqufintTnie. 
church, though not at all in the hne of the Mortimers 
and Orvilles. His sister was charming and his father was 
General Tilney, and they lived at Northanger Abbey, a 
real abbey, like those of the romances she adored ; 
whither, to her rapture, she was invited to accompany 
them, upon a visit, when they all were ready to leave 
Bath. The journey was made in carriages, and for the 
greater part of it Mr. Tilney drove Catherine in his 
open carriage. 

As they drew near the end of their journey, her impatience 
for a sight of the abbey, for some time suspended by his con- 
versation on subjects very different, returned in full force, and 
every bend in the road was expected, with solemn awe, to 
afford a glimpse of its massy walls of gray stone, rising amidst 
a grove of ancient oaks, with the last beams of the sun play- 
ing in beautiful splendor on its high Gothic windows. But so 
low did the building stand that she found herself passing 
through the great gates of the lodge, into the very grounds of 
Northanger, without having discerned even an antique chim- 
ney. 

On the whole, the abbey was disappointing from a The abbey dis- 
romantic point of view, for modern ease and comfort ^PPO'^ting. 
prevailed, good furniture, heavy carpets, and ample 
service. Still, as she went up to bed : 

The night was stormy ; the wind had been rising at intervals 
the whole afternoon ; and by the time the party broke up it 
blew and rained violently. Catherine, as she crossed the hall, 
listened to the tempest with sensations of awe ; and when she 
heard it rage round a corner of the ancient building, and close 
with sudden fury a distant door, felt for the first time that she 
was really in an abbey. Yes, these were characteristic sounds ; 
they brought to her recollection a countless variety of dreadful 
situations and horrid scenes, which such buildings had wit- 
nessed, and such storms ushered in ; and most heartily did she 



320 Me7i and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 

Agreeably rejoice in the happier circumstances attending her entrance 

dismal. within walls so solemn ! 

On entering her room, her spirits were immediately 
assisted by the cheerful blaze of a wood fire. 

She looked round the room. The window curtains seemed 
in motion. It could be nothing but the violence of the wind 
penetrating through the divisions of the shutters ; and she 
stepped boldly forward, carelessly humming a tune, to assure 
herself of its being so, peeped courageously behind each 
curtain, saw nothing on either low window-seat to scare her, 
and on placing a hand against the shutter, felt the strongest 
conviction of the wind's force. A glance at the old chest, as 

An old chest. she turned away from this examination, was not without its 
use ; she scorned the causeless fears of an idle fancy, and 
began with a most happy indifference to prepare herself for 
bed. "She should take her time ; she should not hurry her- 
self ; she did not care if she were the last person up in the 
house. But she would not make up her fire ; that would seem 
cowardly, as if she wished for the protection of light after she 
were in bed." The fire, therefore, died away ; and Catherine, 
having spent the best part of an hour in her arrangements, was 
beginning to think of stepping into bed, when, on giving a 
parting glance round the room, she was struck by the appear- 
ance of a high, old-fashioned black cabinet, which, though in a 
situation conspicuous enough, had never caught her notice 
before. She took her candle and looked closely at the cabi- 
net. It was not absolutely ebony and gold ; but it was Japan, 
black and yellow Japan of the handsomest kind ; and as she 
held her candle the yellow had very much the effect of gold. 

The key was in the door, and she had a strange fancy to look 
into it ; without the smallest expectation of finding anything, 
she could not sleep till she had examined it. So, placing the 
candle with great caution on a chair, she seized the key with a 
very tremulous hand, and tried to turn it ; but it resisted her 
utmost strength. Alarmed, but not discouraged, she tried it 
another way ; a bolt flew, and she believed herself successful ; 
but how strangely mysterious ! the door was still immovable. 
At length it did open ; and not vain, as hitherto, was her 

A roll of paper, search ; her quick eyes directly fell on a roll of paper pushed 



Mrs. Radcliffe and her Followers. 321 

back into the further part of the cavity^ apparently for conceal- 
ment, and her feelings at that moment were indescribable. 
Her heart fluttered, her knees trembled, and her cheeks grew 
pale. She seized, with an unsteady hand, the precious manu- 
script, for half a glance sufficed to ascertain written characters ; 
and resolved instantly to peruse every line before she at- 
tempted to rest. 

The dimness of the light her candle emitted made her turn 
to it with alarm ; but there was no danger of its sudden 
extinction, it had yet some hours to burn ; and that she might 
not have any greater difficulty in distinguishing the writing 
than what its ancient date might occasion she hastily snuffed it. 
Alas ! it was snuffed and extinguished in one. A lamp could 
not have expired with more awful effect. Catherine, for a few 
moments, was motionless with horror. It was done com- 
pletely ; not a remnant of light in the wick could give hope to 
the rekindling breath. Darkness impenetrable and immovable 
filled the room. A violent gust of wind, rising with sudden A gust of wind, 
fury, added fresh horror to the moment. Catherine trembled 
from head to foot. In the pause which succeeded, a sound 
like receding footsteps and the closing of a distant door struck 
on her affiighted ear. Human nature could support no more. 
A cold sweat stood on her forehead, the manuscript fell from 
her hand, and groping her way to the bed, she jumped hastily 
in, and sought some suspension of agony by creeping far 
underneath the clothes. To close her eyes in sleep that night 
she felt must be entirely out of the question. With a curiosity 
so justly awakened, and feelings in every way so agitated, 
repose must be absolutely impossible. The storm, too, 
abroad so dreadful ! She had not been used to feel alarm from 
wind, but now every blast seemed fraught with awful intelli- 
gence. The manuscript so wonderfully found, so wonderfully 
accomplishing the morning's prediction, how was it to be 
accounted for ? What could it .contain ? to whom could it 
relate ? by what means could it have been so long concealed? 

Hour after hour passed away, and the wearied Gather- ah the clocks 
ine had heard three proclaimed by all the clocks in the p"rocfai^m the 
house before the tempest subsided, or she unknowingly *'*'"*^' 
fell fast asleep. 



322 Men. and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 



Disillusion. 



Ashamed but 
not cured. 



The housemaid's folding back her window-shutters at eight 
o'clock the next day was the sound which first roused Cather- 
ine ; and she opened her eyes, wondering that they could ever 
have been closed on objects of cheerfulness ; her fire was 
already burning, and a bright morning had succeeded the tem- 
pest of the night. Instantaneously with the consciousness of 
existence returned her recollection of the manuscript ; and 
springing from her bed in the very moment of the maid's going 
away, she eagerly collected every scattered sheet which had 
burst from the roll on its falling to the ground, and flew back 
to enjoy the luxury of their perusal on her pillow. She now 
plainly saw that she must not expect a manuscript of equal 
length with the generality of what she had shuddered over in 
books ; for the roll, seeming to consist entirely of small 
disjointed sheets, was altogether but of trifling size, and much 
less than she had supposed it to be at first. 

Her greedy eye glanced rapidly over a page. She started at 
its import. Could it be possible, or did not her senses play 
her false ? An inventory of linen, in coarse and modern char- 
acters, seemed all that was before her ! If the evidence of 
sight might be trusted, she held a washing-bill in her hand. 
She seized another sheet, and saw the same articles with little 
variation ; a third, a fourth, and a fifth, presented nothing new. 
Shirts, stockings, cravats, and waistcoats, faced her in each. 
Two others, penned by the same hand, marked an expenditure 
scarcely more interesting. Such was the collection of papers 
(left, perhaps, as she could then suppose, by the negligence of 
a servant, in the place whence she had taken them) which had 
filled her with expectation and alarm, and had robbed her of 
half her night's rest ! She felt humbled to the dust. Could 
not the adventure of the chest have taught her wisdom ? A 
corner of it catching her eye as she lay seemed to rise up in 
iudgment against her. Nothing could now be clearer than the 
absurdity of her recent fancies. To suppose that a manuscript 
of many generations back could have remained undiscovered 
in a room such as that, so modern, so habitable, or that she 
should be the first to possess the skill of unlocking a cabinet 
the key of which was open to all. 

Catherine was heartily ashamed already, but not 
quite cured, until she was one day caught beyond a 



Mrs. Radcliffe ajid her Followers. 323 

gallery which she was exploring with the intention of 
verifying a shocking plot of mystery, and even murder, 
which she had herself conjured up. 

At that instant a door underneath was hastily opened, some 
one seemed with swift steps to ascend the stairs, by the head 
of which she had yet to pass before she could gain the gallery. 
She had no power to move. With a feeling of terror not 
very definable she fixed her eyes on the staircase, and in a few pooUsh 
moments it gave Henry to her view. " Mr. Tilney ! " she ex- tenor, 
claimed, in a voice of more than common astonishment. He 
looked astonished too. "Good God!" she continued, not 
attending to his address, "how came you here? How came 
you up that staircase ? " 

" How came I up that staircase!" he replied, greatly sur- 
prised. " Because it is my nearest way from the stable-yard 
to my own chamber ; and why should I not come up it ? " 

Catherine recollected herself, blushed deeply, and could say 
no more. He seemed to be looking in her countenance for 
that explanation which her lips did not afford. She moved on 
toward the gallery. " And may I not, in my turn," said he, as 
he pushed back the folding doors, "ask how came joz^ here? 
This passage is at least as extraordinary a road from the 
breakfast-parlor to your apartment as that staircase can be 
from the stables to mine." 



The encounter led to a serious explanation and a 
pretty severe lesson from the young man to the lady, 
which was sufficient to bring her wholly to her senses. 
Like all the heroines, she had succeeded in winning the 
affection and regard of Henry Tilney in spite of her 
romantic folly. He said amongst other things, after 
she had confessed the silly romance she had imagined 
concerning his relations : 

"Remember the country and the age in which we live. 
Remember that we are English : that we are Christians. Con- 
sult your own understanding, your own sense of the probable, 
your own observation of what is passing around you. Does 
our education prepare us for such atrocities? Do our laws 



A severe lesson. 



324 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 

connive at them ? Could they be perpetrated without being 
known in a country like this, where social and literary inter- 
course is on such a footing ; where every man is surrounded 
by a neighborhood of voluntary spies ; and where roads and 
newspapers lay everything open ? Dearest Miss Morland, what 
ideas have you been admitting ? " 

They had reached the end of the gallery and with tears of 
shame she ran off to her own room. The visions of romance 
were over. Catherine was completely awakened. 

Strange to say, Henry Tilney continued his atten- 
tions. Some difficulties arose to separate the lovers, 
One more but it all tumed out Well in the end, and Catherine 

happy ending, ' 

Morland became the happy Mrs. Henry Tilney. 

It would be pleasant to continue in the path which 
Miss Austen has opened, with her descriptions of home 
life and the manners of the early nineteenth century. 
But this is to tread on forbidden ground. My task is 
limited. We have been busy with the characters and 
figures of an earlier age, and now like ghosts we must 
disappear ; for the dawn of a new day is beginning to 
show itself. Jane Austen's star we have already per- 
ceived, Maria Edgeworth's is not far off, and the great 
planet Walter Scott will soon with its broad glow 
extinguish smaller lights. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

Mrs. Barbauld's British Novelists, Vols. 31, 32, 33. 
Mysteries of Udolpho. 

Forsyth's Novels and Novelists of the Eighteenth Century. 
Memoir of Jane Austen. By J. E. Leigh. (Bentley, London, 
1879.) 



INDEX. 



Addison and Gay, 75. 

Addison, Joseph, birth and parentage, 

77 ; education and travels, 77 ; re- 
turn to England, 77; political offices, 

78 ; marriage, 78 ; characteristics, 
78 ; mode of life, 78 ; human sym- 
pathies, 79; "Sir Roger de Cover- 
ley," 79, 86 ; Vauxhall Gardens, 85 ; 
Spectator, 87. 

"Amelia," 149. 

Austen, Jane, 317; "Northanger 
Abbey," 318. 

Barbauld, Mrs., 44. 

Barrett, Eaton Stannard, 310; 
" Cherubina," 310. 

Bath, Baedeker's description, 271 ; 
Goldsmith's, 274; amusements, 274 ; 
balls, 275 ; baths and waters, 278 ; 
descriptions in "Female Quixote," 
282 ; in " Pompey the Little," 285 ; 
in "Humphrey Clinker," 287; in 
" Evelina," 290. 

Beau Nash and Bath, 271. 

" Beggar's Opera," 105. 

Burke, Edvi^ard, 194. 

Burnet, Bishop, 11. 

Burney, Dr. and Miss, 223. 

Burney, Fanny, 45; birth and child- 
hood, 261 ; society, 262; "Evelina," 
263 ; acquaintance with Dr. John- 
son and Mrs. Thrale, 265. 

" Castle of Otranto," 207, 215, 231. 

Charlotte, Queen, 212, 223. 

" Cherubina," 310. 

" Children of the Abbey," 301. 

"Chinese Letters," 187. 

" Clarissa Harlowe," 113. 

Corigreve, 36. 

Devil's Tavern, 44. 

Dresden, 21. 

Earthquake in London, 209. 



" Evelina," 233. 

Evelina and Dr. Johnson, 233. 

Extracts. — Addison : " Sir Roger de 
Coverley, 79, 85, 86 ; Spectator, 87- 
104. Austen: " Northanger Abbey," 
318-324. Barrett: "Cherubina," 
310-316. Burney: "Evelina," 233- 
260. Coventry: "Pompey the 
Little," 285. Fielding: "Tom 
Jones," 150-179. Gay: Poem to 
Pope, 35; "Trivia," 105-108. 
Gray: "The Long Story," 228; 
" Lines on the Death of a Cat," 
231. Goldsmith: "Chinese Let- 
ters," 187-191 ; "Vicar of Wake- 
field," 197-201. Lennox: "Female 
Quixote," 48-72, 2S2. Montague: 
Letters, 16, 36, 38, 115, 116 ; Parody on 
" The Dunciad," 37. Pope: "Rape 
of the Lock," 27-33. Radcliffe: 
"Mysteries of Udolpho," 294-300; 
" Children of the Abbey," 301-309. 
Richardson: "Sir Charles Grandi- 
son," 117-146. Smollett: "Hum- 
phrey Clinker," 287. Walpole : Let- 
ters, 208-225; " Castle of Otranto," 
231. 

" Female Quixote," 11, 45, 48-72, 282. 

Fielding, Henry, 147 ; early struggles, 
147 ; marriage, 148 ; "Joseph An- 
drews," 148; "Jonathan Wild," 149; 
"Tom Jones," 149-150; "Amelia," 
149 ; death, 149. 

Freeholder, 77. 

Garrick, 185, 234 ; Garrick and Gold- 
smith, 220. 

Gay, John, 34; poem to Pope, 35; 
account of, 105. 

George I., 22. 

George II., 22. 

Goldsmith, Oliver, birth and parent- 



JUL 18 1898 



326 



Index. 



age, 180 ; life in London, 183 ; inter- 
course with G a r r i c k , 185 ; witli 
Smollett, 185; "Chinese Letters," 
187 ; Dr. Johnson, 193 ; Joshua Rey- 
nolds, 193; Burke, 194; "Vicar of 
Wakefield," 195, 197; "Traveller," 
195 ; death, 202. 

Gray, Thomas, 226; friendship with 
Lady Cobham, 227; "Elegy," 226; 
" Long Story," 228. 

Guardian, 77. 

Herrenhausen, 23. 

Highmore, Miss, 109. 

" Humphrey Clinker," 287. 

Johnson, Dr. Samuel, 193, 194, 265; 
acquaintance with Mrs. Thrale, 
268 ; personal habits, 269 ; style, 
270. 

"Jonathan Wild," 149. 

"Joseph Andrews," 148. 

Lennox, Charlotte, 44; works, 44; 
birth, 44; death, 45; comments of 
Lady Mary and Dr. Johnson, 45 ; 
"Female Quixote," 45, 48; com- 
ments of Mrs. Barbauld, 46. 

Letters of Lady Mary Wortley Mon- 
tague, 16, 36, 38. 

Letters of Horace Walpole, 208. 

" Lines on the Death of a Cat," 231. 

" Long Story," 228. 

Marylebone Garden, 244. 

Mitre Tavern, 194. 

Montague, Edward Wortley, 9, 14. 

Montague, Lady Mary Wortley, birth, 
9 ; parentage and marriage, 9, 18 ; 
personal characteristics, 9 ; Kit-cat 
Club, 10; education, 10; early life, 
II, 12, 13; travels in Germany, 19; 
letters, 16, 36, 38 ; travels in the 
East, 24 ; return to Europe, 24 ; 
Pope, 25, 36, 37 ; parody on " The 
Dunciad," 37 ; separation from hus- 
band and life in Europe, 42 ; return 
to England, 42 ; death, 43. 

Montague, Sidney, 13. 

Mrs. Radcliffe and her Followers, 292. 

" Mysteries of Udolpho," 294. 

Nash, Beau, family, 272 ; life of gai- 
ety in London, 273 ; life at Bath, 274 ; 
equipage and toilet, 279 ; gaming, 
280 ; death, 281. 



Newbery, 186. 

" Pamela," 113. 

Parody on " The Dunciad," 37. 

Percy, Bishop, 185. 

" Pompey the Little," 285. 

Pope and Lady Mary, 9. 

Pope, Alexander, childhood, 26; liter- 
ary career, 26 ; Twickenham, 26 ; 
" Rape of the Lock," 27 ; character- 
istics, 34 ; grotto, 36 ; Lady Mary, 
36, 37- 

Portland, Lady, 41. 

Prague, 20. 

Radcliffe, Ann, birth and death, 292 ; 
list of works, 292 ; " Mysteries of 
TJdolpho," 294; "Children of the 
Abbey," 301. 

" Rape of the Lock," 27. 

Reynolds, Sir Joshua, 193. 

Richardson and Harriet Byron, 109. 

Richardson, Samuel, 109 ; the grotto, 
109; personal characteristics, no; 
novels, III ; "Pamela," 113; "Clar- 
issa," 113; "SirCharles Grandison," 
115 ; life at Parson's Green, 117. 

Siddons, Mrs., 222. 

" Sir Charles Grandison," 115. 

" Sir Roger de Coverley," 79, 86. 

Smollett, 182, 193. 

Spectator, tj, 87. 

Steele, 76. 

Strawberry Hill, 205, 213. 

Tatler, 76. 

Thrale, Mrs., 265, 266, 269. 

" Tom Jones," 149, 150. 

" Traveller," 195. 

" Trivia," 105. 

Turpin, Dick, 244. 

Twickenham, 25, 26, 36, 205. 

Vauxhall Gardens, 85, 211. ' 

" Vicar of Wakefield," 197. 

Vienna, 19. 

Walpole, Mrs. Anne, 13. 

Walpole, Dolly, 13. 

Walpole and Gray, 203. 

Walpole, Horace, birth and edu- 
cation, 204 ; travels with Gray, 204; 
entrance to Parliament, 204 ; Twick- 
enham, 205; death, 206; "Castle of 
Otranto," 207; letters, 208; per- 
sQnaV-chaMcteristics, 225. 

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